/ 


THE  WOMAN-HATERS 


UNI? ,  OT  CALIF.  UBHA1IY, 


BOOKS  BY  JOSEPH  C.  LINCOLN 


The  Woman-Haters 

Keziah  Coffin  The  Depot  Master 

Cy  Whittaker's  Place      Our  Village 
Cap'n  Eri  Mr.  Pratt 

Cape  Cod  Ballads  Partners  of  the  Tide 

The  Old  Home  House 


162 


'\Yho  said   I'd   done  anything?     It's   a   lie.'" 

[Page  44.] 


THE 

WOMAN-HATERS 

A    YARN  OF  EASTBORO    TWIN-LIGHTS 
BY 

JOSEPH    C.  LINCOLN 

AUTHOR  OF 

"CAP'N  ERI,"  "  CY  WHITTAKER'S  PLACE," 
"  KEZIAH  COFFIN,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 

NEW  YORK  AND   LONDON 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

191 1 


COPYRIGHT,  1911,  BY 
D.  APPLETON   AND  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1904,  1906,  1911,  by  Ainslee  Magazine  Company 


Published  June,  1911 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 
J.   FREEMAN    LINCOLN 


2130927 


FOREWORD 

(By  Way  of  Explanation) 

A  STORY  of  mine  called,  like  this,  "  The  Woman- 
Haters,"  appeared  recently  in  one  of  the  maga 
zines.  That  story  was  not  this  one,  except  in  part 
— the  part  dealing  with  "  John  Brown  "  and  Miss 
Ruth  Graham.  Readers  of  the  former  tale  who 
perhaps  imagine  they  know  all  about  Seth  Atkins 
and  Mrs.  Emeline  Bascom  will  be  surprised  to  find 
they  really  know  so  little.  The  truth  is  that,  when 
I  began  to  revise  and  rearrange  the  magazine  story 
for  publication  as  a  book,  new  ideas  came,  grew, 
and  developed.  I  discovered  that  I  had  been  mis 
informed  concerning  the  lightkeeper's  past  and 
present  relations  with  the  housekeeper  at  the  bunga 
low.  And  there  was  "  Bennie  D."  whom  I  had 
overlooked,  had  not  mentioned  at  all;  and  that  re 
juvenated  craft,  the  Daisy  M.;  and  the  high  tide 
which  is,  or  should  be,  talked  about  in  Eastboro 
even  yet;  all  these  I  had  omitted  for  the  very  good 

vii 


FOREWORD 

reason  that  I  never  knew  of  them.  I  have  tried 
to  be  more  careful  this  time.  During  the  re 
vising  process  "  The  Woman-Haters  "  has  more 
than  doubled  in  length  and,  let  us  hope,  in  accuracy. 
Even  now  it  is,  of  course,  not  a  novel,  but  merely  a 
summer  farce-comedy,  a  "  yarn."  And  this,  by  the 
way,  is  all  that  it  pretends  to  be. 

JOSEPH  C.  LINCOLN. 

May,  1911. 


CONTENTS 


I. — MR.  SETH  ATKINS I 

II. — MR.  JOHN  BROWN u 

III. — MR.  BROWN  PUTS  IN  AN  APPLICATION   .     25 

IV. — THE  COMING  OF  JOB 43 

V. — THE  GOING  OF  JOSHUA       ....     71 

VI. — THE  PICNIC 91 

VII. — OUT  OF  THE  BAG 115 

VIII. — NEIGHBORS  AND  WASPS      ....    138 

IX. — THE  BUNGALOW  GIRL         .        .        .        -154 

X. — THE  BUNGALOW  WOMAN    .        .        .        .    177 

XL — BEHIND  THE  SAND  DUNE   ....   200 

XII. — THE  LETTER  AND  THE  'PHONE         .        .   224 

XIII. — "JOHN  BROWN"  CHANGES  His  NAME     .   242 

XIV.— "BENNIE  D" 258 

XV. — THE  VOYAGE  OF  THE  Daisy  M.        .        .   282 

XVI.— THE  EBB  TIDE 311 

XVII.— WOMAN-HATERS 328 

ix 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 
PAGE 


"Who   said   I'd   done   anything?     It's    a   lie": 

Frontispiece 
"'Gosh!'  repeated   Seth  ....  'Jiminy  crimps! 

I  feel  better'" 12 

"'Don't  mind  me,  please,'  she  said"       .        .        .    168 
"  He  crept  close  to  the  bungalow  window  and 

peeped  in. " 336 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 


CHAPTER    I 

MR.   SETH   ATKINS 

THE  stars,  like  incandescent  lights  fed  by 
a    fast  weakening   dynamo,    grew   pale, 
faded,  and,  one  by  one,  went  out.     The 
slate-colored  sea,  with  its  tumbling  waves,  changed 
color,  becoming  a  light  gray,  then  a  faint  blue,  and, 
as  the  red  sun  rolled  up  over  the  edge   of  the 
eastern  horizon,  a  brilliant  sapphire,  trimmed  with 
a  silver  white  on  the  shoals  and  along  the  beach 
at  the  foot  of  the  bluff. 

Seth  Atkins,  keeper  of  the  Eastboro  Twin- 
Lights,  yawned,  stretched,  and  glanced  through 
the  seaward  windows  of  the  octagon-shaped,  glass- 
enclosed  room  at  the  top  of  the  north  tower,  where 
he  had  spent  the  night  just  passed.  Then  he  rose 
from  his  chair  and  extinguished  the  blaze  in  the 
great  lantern  beside  him.  Morning  had  come,  the 
mists  had  rolled  away,  and  the  dots  scattered  along 

I 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

the  horizon — schooners,  tugs,  and  coal  barges,  for 
the  most  part — no  longer  needed  the  glare  of 
Eastboro  Twin-Lights  to  warn  them  against  close 
proximity  to  the  dangerous,  shoal-bordered  coast. 
Incidentally,  it  was  no  longer  necessary  for  Mr. 
Atkins  to  remain  on  watch.  He  drew  the  curtains 
over  the  polished  glass  and  brass  of  the  lantern, 
yawned  again,  and  descended  the  winding  iron 
stairs  to  the  door  at  the  foot  of  the  tower,  opened 
it  and  emerged  into  the  sandy  yard. 

Crossing  this  yard,  before  the  small  white  house 
which  the  government  provided  as  a  dwelling  place 
for  its  lightkeepers,  he  opened  the  door  of  the 
south  tower,  mounted  the  stairs  there  and  repeated 
the  extinguishing  process  with  the  other  lantern. 
Before  again  descending  to  earth,  however,  he 
stepped  out  on  the  iron  balcony  surrounding  the 
light  chamber  and  looked  about  him. 

The  view,  such  as  it  was,  was  extensive.  To 
the  east  the  open  sea,  the  wide  Atlantic,  rolling 
lazily  in  the  morning  light,  a  faint  breeze  rippling 
the  surfaces  of  the  ground-swell.  A  few  sails  in 
sight,  far  out.  Not  a  sound  except  the  hiss  and 
splash  of  the  surf,  which,  because  of  a  week  of 
calms  and  light  winds,  was  low  even  for  that  time 
of  year — early  June. 

2 


MR.    SETH   ATKINS 

To  the  north  stretched  the  shores  of  the  back 
of  the  Cape.  High  clay  bluffs,  rain-washed  and 
wrinkled,  sloping  sharply  to  the  white  sand  of  the 
beach  a  hundred  feet  below.  Only  one  building, 
except  those  connected  with  the  lighthouses,  near 
at  hand,  this  a  small,  gray-shingled  bungalow 
about  two  hundred  yards  away,  separated  from 
the  lights  by  the  narrow  stream  called  Clam  Creek 
— Seth  always  spoke  of  it  as  the  "  Crick  " — which, 
turning  in  behind  the  long  surf-beaten  sandspit 
known,  for  some  forgotten  reason,  as  "  Black 
Man's  Point,"  continued  to  the  salt-water  pond 
which  was  named  "  The  Cove."  A  path  led  down 
from  the  lighthouses  to  a  bend  in  the  "  Crick," 
and  there,  on  a  small  wharf,  was  a  shanty  where 
Seth  kept  his  spare  lobster  and  eel-pots,  dory  sails, 
nets,  and  the  like.  The  dory  itself,  with  the  oars 
in  her,  was  moored  in  the  cove. 

A  mile  off,  to  the  south,  the  line  of  bluffs 
was  broken  by  another  inlet,  the  entrance  to 
Pounddug  Slough.  This  poetically  named  chan 
nel  twisted  and  wound  tortuously  inland  through 
salt  marshes  and  between  mudbanks,  widening  at 
last  to  become  Eastboro  Back  Harbor,  a  good- 
sized  body  of  water,  with  the  village  of  Eastboro 
at  its  upper  end.  In  the  old  days,  when  Eastboro 

3 


THE   WOMAN-HATERS 

amounted  to  something  as  a  fishing  port,  the 
mackerel  fleet  unloaded  its  catch  at  the  wharves 
in  the  Back  Harbor.  Then  Pounddug  Slough 
was  kept  thoroughly  dredged  and  buoyed.  Now 
it  was  weed-grown  and  neglected.  Only  an  occa 
sional  lobsterman's  dory  traversed  its  winding 
ways,  which  the  storms  and  tides  of  each  suc 
ceeding  winter  rendered  more  difficult  to  navigate. 
The  abandoned  fish  houses  along  its  shores  were 
falling  to  pieces,  and  at  intervals  the  stranded 
hulk  of  a  fishing  sloop  or  a  little  schooner,  rotting 
in  the  sun,  was  a  dismal  reminder  that  Eastboro's 
ambitious  young  men  no  longer  got  their  living 
alongshore.  The  town  itself  had  gone  to  sleep, 
awakening  only  in  the  summer,  when  the  few  cot 
tagers  came  and  the  Bay  Side  Hotel  was  opened 
for  its  short  season. 

Behind  the  lighthouse  buildings,  to  the  west — 
and  in  the  direction  of  the  village — were  five  miles 
of  nothing  in  particular.  A  desolate  wilderness 
of  rolling  sand-dunes,  beach  grass,  huckleberry 
and  bayberry  bushes,  cedar  swamps,  and  small 
clumps  of  pitch-pines.  Through  this  desert  the 
three  or  four  rutted,  crooked  sand  roads,  leading 
to  and  from  the  lights,  turned  and  twisted.  Along 
their  borders  dwelt  no  human  being;  but  life  was 

4 


MR.    SETH   ATKINS 

there,  life  in  abundance.  Ezra  Payne,  late  assistant 
keeper  at  the  Twin-Lights,  was  ready  at  all  times 
to  furnish  evidence  concerning  the  existence  of  this 
life. 

"  My  godfreys  domino !  "  Ezra  had  exclaimed, 
after  returning  from  a  drive  to  Eastboro  village, 
"  I  give  you  my  word,  Seth,  they  dummed  nigh 
et  me  alive.  They  covered  the  horse  all  up,  so  that 
he  looked  for  all  the  world  like  a  sheep,  woolly. 
I  don't  mind  moskeeters  in  moderation,  but  when 
they  roost  on  my  eyelids  and  make  'em  so  heavy 
I  can't  open  'em,  then  I'm  ready  to  swear.  But  I 
couldn't  get  even  that  relief,  because  every  time  I 
unbattened  my  mouth  a  million  or  so  flew  in  and 
choked  me.  That's  what  I  said — a  million.  Some 
moskeeters  are  fat,  but  these  don't  get  a  square 
meal  often  enough  to  be  anything  but  hide-racks 
filled  with  cussedness.  Moskeeters !  My  godfreys 
domino !  " 

Ezra  was  no  longer  assistant  lightkeeper.  He 
and  his  superior  had  quarreled  two  days  before. 
The  quarrel  was  the  culmination,  on  Ezra's  part, 
of  a  gradually  developing  "  grouch  "  brought  on 
by  the  loneliness  of  his  surroundings.  After  a 
night  of  duty  he  had  marched  into  the  house, 
packed  his  belongings  in  a  battered  canvas  exten- 
2  5 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

sion  case,  and  announced  his  intention  of  resigning 
from  the  service. 

"  To  the  everlastin'  brimstone  with  the  job !  " 
he  snarled,  addressing  Mr.  Atkins,  who,  partially 
dressed,  emerged  from  the  bedroom  in  bewilder 
ment  and  sleepy  astonishment.  "  To  thunder  with 
it,  I  say !  I've  had  all  the  gov'ment  jobs  I  want. 
Life-savin'  service  was  bad  enough,  trampin'  the 
condemned  beach  in  a  howlin'  no'theaster,  with  the 
sand  cuttin'  furrers  in  your  face,  and  the  icicles  on 
your  mustache  so  heavy  you  got  round-shouldered 
luggin'  'em.  But  when  your  tramp  was  over,  you 
had  somebody  to  talk  to.  Here,  by  godfreys! 
there  ain't  nothin'  nor  nobody.  I'm  goin'  fishin' 
again,  where  I  can  be  sociable." 

"Humph!"  commented  Seth,  "you  must  be 
lonesome  all  to  once.  Ain't  my  company  good 
enough  for  you?  " 

"  Company !  A  heap  of  company  you  are ! 
When  I'm  awake  you're  alseep  and  snorin'  and — " 

"  I  never  snored  in  my  life,"  was  the  indignant 
interruption. 

'What?  You'll  snore  when  you're  dead,  and 
wake  up  the  whole  graveyard.  Lonesome!"  he 
continued,  without  giving  his  companion  a  chance 
to  retort,  "  lonesome  ain't  no  name  for  this  place. 

6 


MR.    SETH   ATKINS 

No  company  but  green  flies  and  them  moskeeters, 
and  nothin'  to  look  at  but  salt  water  and  sand  and 
— and — dummed  if  I  can  think  of  anything  else. 
Five  miles  from  town  and  the  only  house  in  sight 
shut  tight.  When  I  come  here  you  told  me  that 
bungalow  was  opened  up  every  year " 

u  So  it  has  been  till  this  season." 

u  And  that  picnics  come  here  every  once  in  a 
while." 

"  Don't  expect  picnickers  to  be  such  crazy  loons 
as  to  come  here  in  winter  time,  do  you?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  If  they're  fools  enough  to 
come  here  any  time,  /  wouldn't  be  responsible  for 
'em.  There  ain't  so  many  moskeeters  in  winter. 
But  just  look  at  this  hole.  Just  put  on  your  specs 
and  look  at  it !  Not  a  man — but  you — not  a  wo 
man,  not  a  child,  not  a  girl " 

"  Ah  ha  1  ah  ha !  Now  we're  gettin'  at  it !  Not 
a  girl !  That's  what's  the  matter  with  you.  You 
want  to  be  up  in  the  village,  where  you  can  go 
courtin'.  You're  too  fur  from  Elsie  Peters,  that's 
where  the  shoe  pinches.  I've  heard  how  you  used 
to  set  out  in  her  dad's  backyard,  with  your  arm 
round  her  waist,  lookin'  at  each  other,  mushy  as 
a  couple  of  sassers  of  hasty-puddin'.  Bah!  I'll 
take  care  my  next  assistant  ain't  girl-struck." 

7 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  Girl-struck!  I'd  enough  sight  ruther  be  girl- 
struck  than  always  ravin'  and  rippin'  against  fe 
males.  And  all  because  some  woman  way  back 
in  Methusalem's  time  had  sense  enough  to  heave 
you  over.  At  least,  that's  what  everybody  cal'lates 
must  be  the  reason.  You  pretend  to  be  a  woman- 
hater.  All  round  this  part  of  the  Cape  you've 
took  pains  to  get  up  that  kind  of  reputation; 
but " 

"  There  ain't  no  pretendin'  about  it.  I've  got 
brains  enough  to  keep  clear  of  petticoats.  And 
when  you  get  to  be  as  old  as  I  be  and  know  as 
much  as  I  do — though  that  ain't  no  ways  likely, 
even  if  you  live  to  be  nine  hundred  and  odd,  like 
Noah  in  Scripture — you'll  feel  the  same  way." 

"  Aw,  come  off  !  Woman-hater !  You  hate 
women  same  as  the  boy  at  the  pcorhouse  hated  ice 
cream — 'cause  there  ain't  none  around.  Why,  I 
wouldn't  trust  you  as  fur  as  I  could  see  you !  " 

This  was  the  end  of  the  dialogue,  because  Mr. 
Payne  was  obliged  to  break  off  his  harangue  and 
dodge  the  stove-lifter  flung  at  him  by  the  outraged 
lightkeeper.  As  the  lifter  was  about  to  be  fol 
lowed  by  the  teakettle,  Ezra  took  to  his  heels, 
bolted  from  the  house  and  began  his  long  tramp 
to  the  village.  When  he  reached  the  first  clumps 

8 


MR.    SETH   ATKINS 

of  bayberry  bushes  bordering  the  deeply  rutted 
road,  a  joyful  cloud  of  mosquitoes  rose  and  settled 
about  him  like  a  fog. 

So  Seth  Atkins  was  left  alone  to  do  double 
duty  at  Eastboro  Twin-Lights,  pending  the  ap 
pointment  of  another  assistant.  The  two  days  and 
nights  following  Ezra's  departure  had  been  strenu 
ous  and  provoking.  Doing  all  the  housework,  pre 
paration  of  meals  included,  tending  both  lights, 
rubbing  brass  work,  sweeping  and  scouring,  sleep 
ing  when  he  could  and  keeping  awake  when  he 
must,  nobody  to  talk  to,  nobody  to  help — the  forty- 
eight  hours  of  solitude  had  already  convinced  Mr. 
Atkins  that  the  sooner  a  helper  was  provided  the 
better.  At  times  he  even  wished  the  disrespectful 
Payne  back  again,  wished  that  he  had  soothed  in 
stead  of  irritated  the  departed  one.  Then  he  re 
membered  certain  fragments  of  their  last  conver 
sation  and  wished  the  stove-lifter  had  been  flung 
with  better  aim. 

Now,  standing  on  the  gallery  of  the  south  tower, 
he  was  conscious  of  a  desire  for  breakfast.  Pre 
paring  that  meal  had  been  a  part  of  his  assistant's 
duties.  Now  he  must  prepare  it  himself,  and  he 
was  hungry  and  sleepy.  He  mentally  vowed  that 
he  would  no  longer  delay  notifying  the  authorities 

9 


THE   WOMAN-HATERS 

of  the  desertion,  and  would  urge  them  to  hurry 
in  sending  some  one  to  fill  the  vacant  place. 

Grumbling  aloud  to  himself,  he  moved  around 
the  circle  of  the  gallery  toward  the  door.  His 
hand  was  on  the  latch,  when,  turning,  he  cast  an 
other  glance  over  the  rail,  this  time  directly  down 
ward  toward  the  beach  below.  And  there  he  saw 
something  which  caused  him  to  forget  hunger  and 
grievances  of  all  kinds;  something  which,  after  one 
horrified  look  to  make  sure,  led  him  to  dart  into 
the  light  chamber,  spring  at  a  reckless  gait  down 
the  winding  stair,  out  of  the  tower,  rush  to  the 
edge  of  the  bluff,  and  plunge  headlong  down  the 
zigzag  path  worn  in  the  clay. 

On  the  sand,  at  the  foot  of  the  bluff  below  the 
lights,  just  beyond  reach  of  the  wash  of  the  surf, 
lay  a  man,  or  the  dead  body  of  a  man,  stretched 
at  full  length. 


CHAPTER    II 

MR.  JOHN  BROWN 

ONCE  before,  during  his  years  of  service 
as  keeper  of  Eastboro  Twin-Lights,  had 
Seth  seen  such  a  sight  as  that  which  now 
caused  him  to  make  his  dash  for  the  shore.  Once 
before,  after  the  terrible  storm  of  1905,  when  the 
great  steamer  Bay  Queen  went  down  with  all  on 
board,  the  exact  spot  of  her  sinking  unknown  even 
to  this  day.  Then  the  whole  ocean  side  of  the 
Cape,  from  Race  Point  to  Orham,  was  strewn 
with  ghastly  relics.  But  the  Bay  Queen  met  her 
fate  in  the  winter  season,  amid  a  gale  such  as  even 
the  oldest  residents  could  not  remember.  Now  it 
was  early  summer;  the  night  before  had  been  a 
flat  calm.  There  had  been  no  wreck,  or  the  life- 
savers  would  have  told  him  of  it.  There  would 
be  no  excuse  for  a  wreck,  anyway. 

All  this,  in  disjointed  fragments,  passed  through 
the  lightkeeper's  mind  as  he  descended  the  path  in 
frantic  bounds  and  plowed  through  the  ankle-deep 

II 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

white  sand  of  the  beach.  As  he  approached  the 
recumbent  figure  he  yelled  a  panted  "  Hi,  there !  " 
He  did  not  expect  the  hail  to  be  answered  or  even 
noticed.  Therefore,  he  was  pleasantly  disap 
pointed  when  the  figure  rolled  over,  raised  itself 
on  one  elbow,  looked  at  him  in  a  dazed  sort  of 
v/ay  and  replied  cheerfully  but  faintly,  "  Hello !  " 

Seth  stopped  short,  put  a  hand  to  the  breast  of 
his  blue  flannel  shirt,  and  breathed  a  mighty  sigh 
of  relief. 

"Gosh!"  he  exclaimed  with  fervor.  Then, 
changing  his  labored  gallop  for  a  walk,  he  con 
tinued  his  progress  toward  the  man,  who,  as  if 
his  momentary  curiosity  was  satisfied,  lay  down 
again.  He  did  not  rise  when  the  lightkeeper 
reached  his  side,  but  remained  quiet,  looking  up 
from  a  pair  of  gray  eyes  and  smiling  slightly  with 
lips  that  were  blue.  He  was  a  stranger  to  Atkins, 
a  young  fellow,  rather  good  looking,  dressed  in 
blue  serge  trousers,  negligee  shirt,  blue  socks,  and 
without  shoes  or  hat.  His  garments  were  soaked, 
and  the  salt  water  dripped  from  his  shoulders  to 
the  sand.  The  lightkeeper  stared  at  him,  and  he 
returned  the  stare. 

"  Gosh!  "  repeated  Seth,  after  an  instant  of  si 
lence.  "  Jiminy  crimps!  I  feel  better." 

12 


"'Gosh!'    repeated    Scth.   .   .   .   'Jiminy    crimps!       I    feel 

better.'" 


MR.    JOHN    BROWN 

The  stranger's  smile  broadened.  "  Glad  to  hear 
it,  I'm  sure,"  he  said,  slowly.  "  So  do  I,  though 
there's  still  room  for  improvement.  What  was 
your  particular  ailment?  Mine  seems  to  have  been 
water  on  the  brain." 

He  sat  up  and  shakily  ran  a  hand  through  his 
wet  hair  as  he  spoke.  Atkins,  his  surprise  doubled 
by  this  extraordinary  behavior,  could  think  of  noth 
ing  to  say. 

"  Good  morning,"  continued  the  young  man, 
as  if  the  meeting  had  been  the  most  casual  and 
ordinary  possible;  "  I  think  you  said  a  moment  ago 
that  you  were  feeling  better.  No  relapse,  I  trust." 

"Relapse?  What  in  the  world?  Are  you 
crazy?  I  ain't  sick." 

"  That's  good.  I  must  have  misunderstood  you. 
Pleasant  morning,  isn't  it?  " 

"Pleasant  morn —  Why,  say!  I — I — what 
in  time  are  you  doin',  layin'  there  all  soaked 
through  ?  You  scared  me  pretty  nigh  to  death.  I 
thought  you  was  drowned,  sure  and  sartin." 

"  Did  you  ?  Well,  to  be  honest,  so  did  I,  for 
a  while.  In  fact,  I'm  not  absolutely  sure  that  I'm 
not,  even  yet.  You'll  excuse  me  if  I  lie  down 
again,  won't  you?  I  never  tried  a  seaweed  pillow 
before,  but  it  isn't  so  bad." 

13 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

He  again  stretched  himself  on  the  sand.  Seth 
shook  his  head. 

"  Well,  if  this  don't  beat  me!  "  he  exclaimed. 
'  You're  the  coolest  critter  that  ever  I — I " 

"  I  am  cool,"  admitted  the  young  man,  with  a 
slight  shiver.  '  This  stretch  of  ocean  here  isn't 
exactly  a  Turkish  bath.  I've  been  swimming 
since — well,  an  hour  or  two  ago,  and  I  am  just  a 
little  chilled." 

He  shivered  again. 

"  Swimmin' !  An  hour  or  two  ?  Where  on 
earth  did  you  come  from?  " 

"  Oh,  I  fell  overboard  from  a  steamer  off  here 
somewhere.  I " 

Another  and  emphatic  shiver  caused  him  to 
pause.  The  lightkeeper  awoke  to  the  realities  of 
the  situation. 

"  Good  land  of  love!  "  he  exclaimed.  "  What 
am  I  thinkin'  of?  Seein'  you  this  way,  and  you 
talkin'  so  kind  of  every-day  and  funny  drove  my 
senses  clean  out,  I  guess.  Get  right  up  off  that 
wet  place  this  minute.  Come  up  to  the  house, 
quick!  Can  you  walk?  " 

"  Don't  know.  I  am  willing  to  try.  Would 
you  mind  giving  me  a  lift?  " 

Seth  didn't  mind,  which  was  fortunate,  as  his 
14 


MR.    JOHN    BROWN 

new  acquaintance  couldn't  have  risen  unaided.  His 
knees  shook  under  him  when  he  stood  erect,  and 
he  leaned  heavily  on  the  lightkeeper's  arm. 

"Steady  now,"  counselled  Atkins;  "no  hurry. 
Take  it  easy.  If  you've  navigated  water  all  alone 
for  hours,  I  cal'late  between  us  we  can  manage  to 
make  a  five-minute  cruise  on  dry  land.  .  .  .  Even 
if  the  course  we  steer  would  make  an  eel  lame 
tryin'  to  follow  it,"  he  added,  as  the  castaway  stag 
gered  and  reeled  up  the  beach.  "  Now  don't  try 
to  talk.  Let  your  tongue  rest  and  give  your  feet 
a  chance." 

The  climbing  of  the  steep  bluff  was  a  struggle, 
but  they  accomplished  it,  and  at  length  the  stranger 
was  seated  in  a  chair  in  the  kitchen. 

"  Now,  the  fust  thing,"  observed  Seth,  "  is  to 
get  them  wet  clothes  off  you.  Usually  I'd  have  a 
good  fire  here,  but  that  miserable  Ezry  has — that 
is,  my  assistant's  left  me,  and  I  have  to  go  It  alone, 
as  you  might  say.  So  we'll  get  you  to  bed  and 
.  .  .  No,  you  can't  undress  yourself,  neither. 
Set  still,  and  I'll  have  you  peeled  in  a  jiffy." 

His  guest  was  making  feeble  efforts  to  remove 
his  socks.  Atkins  pushed  him  back  into  the  chair 
and  stripped  the  blue  and  dripping  rags  from  feet 
which  were  almost  as  blue  from  cold.  The  cast- 

15 


THE   WOMAN-HATERS 

away  attempted  a  weak  resistance,  but  gave  it  up 
and  said,  with  a  whimsical  smile: 

"  I'm  mightily  obliged  to  you.  I  never  realized 
before  that  a  valet  was  such  a  blessing.  Most  of 
mine  have  been  confounded  nuisances." 

"  Hey?  "  queried  Seth,  looking  up. 

u  Nothing.  Pardon  me  for  comparing  you  with 
a  valet." 

"  Land  sakes!  /  don't  care  what  you  call  me. 
I  was  out  of  my  head  once  myself — typhoid  fever 
'twas — and  they  say  the  things  I  called  the  doctor 
was  somethin'  scandalous.  You  ain't  responsible. 
You're  beat  out,  and  your  brain's  weak,  like  the 
rest  of  you.  Now  hold  on  till  I  get  you  a  night 
gown." 

He  started  for  the  bedroom.  The  young  man 
seemed  a  bit  troubled. 

'  Just  a  minute,"  he  observed.  "  Don't  you 
think  I  had  better  move  to  a  less  conspicuous  apart 
ment  ?  The  door  is  open,  and  if  any  of  your  neigh 
bors  should  happen  by — any  ladies,  for  instance, 
I " 

"Ladies!"  Mr.  Atkins  regarded  him  frown- 
ingly.  "  In  the  fust  place,  there  ain't  a  neighbor 
nigher'n  four  miles;  and,  in  the  next,  I'd  have  you 
understand  no  women  come  to  this  house.  If  you 

16 


MR.   JOHN    BROWN 

knew  me  better,  young  feller,  you'd  know  that. 
Set  where  you  be." 

The  nightshirt  was  one  of  the  lightkeeper's  own, 
and,  although  Seth  was  a  good-sized  man,  it  fitted 
the  castaway  almost  too  tightly  for  comfort. 
However,  it  was  dry  and  warm  and,  by  leaving  a 
button  or  two  unfastened  at  the  neck,  answered  the 
purpose  well  enough.  The  stranger  was  piloted 
to  the  bedroom,  assisted  into  the  depths  of  a  feath 
er  bed,  and  covered  with  several  layers  of  blankets 
and  patchwork  quilts. 

'  There  !  "  observed  Seth,  contentedly,  "  now 
you  go  to  sleep.  If  you  get  to  sweatin',  so  much 
the  better.  'Twill  get  some  of  that  cold  water 
out  of  you.  So  long !  " 

He  departed,  closing  the  door  after  him.  Then 
he  built  a  fire  in  the  range,  got  breakfast,  ate  it, 
washed  the  dishes  and  continued  his  forenoon's 
work.  Not  a  sound  from  the  bedroom.  Evidently 
the  strange  arrival  had  taken  the  advice  concern 
ing  going  to  sleep.  But  all  the  time  he  was  wash 
ing  dishes,  rubbing  brass  work  or  sweeping,  Mr. 
Atkins's  mind  was  busy  with  the  puzzle  which  fate 
had  handed  him.  Occasionally  he  chuckled,  and 
often  he  shook  his  head.  He  could  make  nothing 
out  of  it.  One  thing  only  was  certain — he  had 

17 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

never  before  met  a  human  being  exactly  like  this 
specimen. 

It  was  half  past  twelve  before  there  were 
signs  of  life  in  the  bedroom.  Seth  was  setting  the 
table  for  dinner,  when  the  door  of  the  room  opened 
a  little  way,  and  a  voice  said: 

"  I  say,  are  you  there?  " 

"  I  be.     What  do  you  want?  " 

"  Would  you  mind  telling  me  what  you've  done 
with  my  clothes?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.  I've  got  'em  out  on  the  line,  and 
they  ain't  dry  yet.  If  you'll  look  on  the  chair  by 
the  sou'west  window  you'll  find  a  rig-out  of  mine. 
I'm  afraid  'twill  fit  you  too  quick — you're  such  an 
elephant — but  I'll  risk  it  if  you  will." 

Apparently  the  stranger  was  willing  to  risk  it, 
for  in  a  few  moments  he  appeared,  dressed  in  the 
Atkins  Sunday  suit  of  blue  cloth,  and  with  Seth's 
pet  carpet  slippers  on  his  feet. 

"Hello!"  was  the  lightkeeper's  greeting. 
"  How  you  feelin'? — better?  " 

'  Tip  top,  thank  you.  Where  do  you  wash, 
when  it's  necessary?" 

"  Basin  right  there  in  the  sink.  Soap  in  the 
becket  over  top  of  it.  Roller  towel  on  the  closet 
door.  Ain't  you  had  water  enough  for  a  spell?  " 

18 


MR.    JOHN    BROWN 

"  Not  fresh  water,  thank  you.  I'm  caked  with 
salt  from  head  to  foot." 

"  Does  make  a  feller  feel  like  a  split  herrin',  if 
he  ain't  used  to  it.  Think  you  can  eat  anything?  " 

"Can    I?"      The    response    was    enthusiastic. 
'  You  watch  me !     My  last  meal  was  yesterday 
noon." 

'  Yesterday  noon!    Didn't  you  eat  no  supper?  " 

"  No." 

"Why  not?" 

;'  Well,  I — well,  to  be  frank,  because  I  hadn't 
the  price.  It  took  my  last  cent  to  pay  my  fare  on 
that  blessed  steamer." 

"  Great  land  of  love !  What  time  was  it  when 
you  fell  overboard?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.     Two  o'clock,  perhaps." 

'  Two  o'clock !  What  was  you  doin'  up  at  two 
o'clock?  Why  wasn't  you  in  your  stateroom 
asleep?  " 

"  I  hadn't  any  stateroom.  Staterooms  cost 
money." 

"  My  soul!  And  you  swum  three  hours  on  an 
empty  stomach?  " 

"  Not  altogether.  Part  of  it  on  my  back.  But, 
if  you'll  excuse  familiarity  on  short  acquaintance, 
those  things  you're  cooking  smell  good  to  me." 

19 


THE   WOMAN-HATERS 

1  Them's  clam  fritters,  and,  if  you'll  excuse  my 
sayin'  so  that  shouldn't,  they  are  good.  Set  down 
and  fill  up." 

The  visitor  ate  nine  of  the  fritters,  a  slice  of 
dried-apple  pie,  and  drank  two  cups  of  coffee.  Seth, 
between  intervals  of  frying  and  eating,  watched 
him  with  tremendous  curiosity  and  as  much  patience 
as  he  could  muster.  When  the  pie  was  finished 
he  asked  the  first  of  the  questions  with  which  he 
had  been  bursting  all  the  forenoon. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  "  how'd  you  come  to  fall 
overboard?  " 

"  I'm  not  very  certain  just  how  it  happened.  I 
remember  leaning  over  the  rail  and  watching 
the  waves.  Then  I  was  very  dizzy  all  at 
once.  The  next  thing  I  knew  I  was  in  the 
water." 

"Dizzy,  hey?     Seasick,  may  be." 

"  I  guess  not.  I'm  a  pretty  good  sailor.  I'm 
inclined  to  think  the  cause  was  that  empty  stomach 
you  mentioned." 

"  Um-hm.  You  didn't  have  no  supper.  Still, 
you  ate  the  noon  afore." 

"  Not  much.    Only  a  sandwich." 

"  A  sandwich !  What  did  you  have  for  break 
fast?" 

20 


MR.    JOHN    BROWN 

"  Well,  the  fact  is,  I  overslept  and  decided  to 
omit  the  breakfast." 

"Gosh!  no  wonder  you  got  dizzy.  If  I  went 
without  meals  for  a  whole  day  I  cal'late  I'd  be 
worse  than  dizzy.  What  did  you  do  when  you 
found  yourself  in  the  water?" 

4  Yelled  at  first,  but  no  one  heard  me.  Then  I 
saw  some  lights  off  in  this  direction  and  started  to 
swim  for  them.  I  made  the  shore  finally,  but  I 
was  so  used  up  that  I  don't  remember  anything 
after  the  landing.  Think  I  took  a  nap." 

"  I  presume  likely.  Wonder  'twasn't  your  ever- 
lastin'  nap  !  Tut !  tut !  tut !  Think  of  it !  " 

"  I  don't  want  to,  thank  you.  It  isn't  pleasant 
enough  to  think  of.  I'm  here  and — by  the  way, 
where  is  here?  " 

'  This  is  Eastboro  township — Eastboro,  Cape 
Cod.  Them  lights  out  there  are  Eastboro  Twin- 
Lights.  I'm  the  keeper  of  'em.  My  name's  At 
kins,  Seth  Atkins." 

"  Delighted  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Atkins.  And 
tremendously  obliged  to  you,  besides." 

'  You  needn't  be.  I  ain't  done  nothin'.  Let 
me  see,  you  said  your  name  was " 

"Did  I?"     The  young  man  seemed  startled, 
almost  alarmed.     "When?" 
3  21 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

Seth  was  embarrassed,  but  not  much.  :'  Well," 
he  admitted,  "  I  don't  know's  you  did  say  it,  come 
to  think  of  it.  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"My  name?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh,  why — my  name  is  Brown — er — John 
Brown.  Not  the  gentleman  who  was  hanged,  of 
course;  distant  relative,  that's  all." 

"Hum!  John  Brown,  hey?  What  steamer 
did  you  fall  off  of?" 

"  Why — why — I  can't  seem  to  remember. 
That's  odd,  isn't  it?" 

"  Yes,  I  should  say  'twas.  Where  was  she 
bound?" 

"Bound?  Oh,  you  mean  where  was  she  go- 
ing?" 

"  Sartin." 

"  I  think — I  think  she  was  going  to — to.  .  .  . 
Humph!  how  strange  this  is!  " 

"What?" 

"  Why,  that  I  should  forget  all  these  things." 

The  lightkeeper  regarded  his  guest  with  sus 
picion. 

"  Yaas,"  he  drawled  slowly,  "  when  you  call  it 
strange  you  ain't  exaggeratin'  none  wuth  mention- 
in'.  I  s'pose,"  he  added,  after  a  moment,  during 

22 


MR.    JOHN    BROWN 

which  he  stared  intently  at  Mr.  Brown,  who  smiled 
in  polite  acknowledgment  of  the  stare;  "  I  s'pose 
likely  you  couldn't  possibly  remember  what  port 
you  hailed  from?  " 

"  I  suppose  not,"  was  the  calm  reply. 

Seth  rose  from  the  table. 

"  Well,"  he  observed,  "  I've  been  up  all  night, 
too,  and  it's  past  my  bedtime.  As  I  told  you,  my 
assistant's  left  all  of  a  sudden  and  I'm  alone  in 
charge  of  gov'ment  property.  I  ought  to  turn  in, 
but — "  he  hesitated. 

John  Brown  also  rose. 

"  Mr.  Atkins,"  he  said,  "  my  memory  seems  to 
be  pretty  bad,  but  I  haven't  forgotten  everything. 
For  instance,"  his  smile  disappeared,  and  his  tone 
became  earnest,  "  I  can  remember  perfectly  well 
that  I'm  not  a  crook,  that  I  haven't  done  anything 
to  be  ashamed  of — as  I  see  it — that  I'm  very  grate 
ful  to  you,  and  that  I  don't  steal.  If  you  care 
to  believe  that  and,  also,  that,  being  neither  a  sneak 
or  a  thief,  I  sha'n't  clear  out  with  the  spoons  while 
you're  asleep,  you  might — well,  you  might  risk 
turning  in." 

The  lightkeeper  did  not  answer  immediate 
ly.  The  pair  looked  each  other  straight  in  the 
eye. 

23 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

Then  Seth  yawned  and  turned  toward  the  bed 
room. 

"  I'll  risk  it,"  he  said,  curtly.  "  If  I  ain't  awake 
by  six  o'clock  I  wish  you'd  call  me.  You'll  find 
some  spare  clay  pipes  and  tobacco  on  the  mantel 
piece  by  the  clock.  So  long." 

He  entered  the  bedroom  and  closed  the  door. 
Mr.  Brown  stepped  over  to  the  mantel  and  helped 
himself  to  a  pipe. 


CHAPTER    III 

MR.   BROWN   PUTS   IN  AN  APPLICATION 

AT  half  past  five  the  lightkeeper  opened  the 
bedroom    door    and   peeped    out.      The 
kitchen  was  empty.     There  was  no  sign 
of  Mr.  Brown.     It  took  Seth  just  four  minutes 
to  climb  into  the  garments  he  had  discarded  and 
reach  the  open  air.     His  guest  was  seated  on  the 
bench  beside  the  house,  one  of  the  clay  pipes  in 
his  hand.    He  was  looking  out  to  sea.    He  spoke 
first: 

"  Hello !  "  he  said.  "  You're  up  ahead  of  time, 
aren't  you?  It  isn't  six  yet." 

Atkins  grinned.  "  No,"  he  answered,  "  'tain't! 
not  quite.  But  sence  Ezry  cleared  out  I've  been  a 
kind  of  human  alarm  clock,  as  you  might  say. 
Feelin'  all  right,  are  you?" 

'  Yes,  thank  you.  I  say,"  holding  up  the  pipe 
and  regarding  it  respectfully,  "  is  this  tobacco  of 
yours  furnished  by  the  government?" 

25 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  No.  Some  I  bought  myself  last  time  I  was 
over  to  the  Center.  Why,  what's  the  matter  with 
it?  Ain't  it  good?" 

"  Perhaps  so." 

"Then  what  made  you  ask?  Ain't  it  strong 
enough?  " 

"  Strong  enough !  You're  disposed  to  be  sar 
castic.  It's  stronger  than  I  am.  What  do  they 
flavor  it  with — tar?" 

"  Say,  let's  see  that  plug.  That  ain't  srnokin' 
tobacco." 

"  What  is  it,  then — asphalt?  " 

"  Why,  haw !  haw !  That's  a  piece  of  Ezry's 
chewin'.  Some  he  left  when  he  went  away.  It's 
'  Honest  Friend.'  'Tis  flavored  up  consider'ble. 
And  you  tried  to  smoke  it !  Ho !  ho !  " 

The  young  man  joined  in  the  laugh. 

"  That  explains  why  it  bubbled  so,"  he  said. 
"  I  used  twenty-two  matches,  by  actual  count,  and 
then  gave  it  up.  Bah !  "  he  smacked  his  lips  dis 
gustedly  and  made  a  face :  "  '  Honest  Friend  ' — 
is  that  the  name  of  it?  Meaning  that  it'll  stick 
to  you  through  life,  I  presume.  Water  has  no 
effect  on  the  taste;  I've  tried  it." 

"  Maybe  some  supper  might  help.  I'll  wash 
the  dinner  dishes  and  start  gettin'  it.  All  there 

26 


AN    APPLICATION 

seems  to  be  to  this  job  of  mine  just  now  is  washin' 
dishes.    And  how  I  hate  it !  " 

He  reentered  the  kitchen.  Then  he  uttered  an 
exclamation : 

'  Why,  what's  become  of  the  dishes?  "  he  de 
manded.     "  I  left  'em  here  on  the  table." 

Brown  arose  from  the  bench  and  sauntered  to 
the  door. 

"  I  washed  them,"  he  said.  "  I  judged  that  you 
would  have  to  if  I  didn't,  and  it  seemed  the  least 
I  could  do,  everything  considered." 

"  Sho!  You  washed  the  dishes,  hey?  Where'd 
you  put  'em?  " 

"  In  the  closet  there.  That's  where  they  be 
long,  isn't  it?" 

Seth  went  to  the  closet,  took  a  plate  from  the 
pile  and  inspected  it. 

"Urn!"  he  grunted,  turning  the  plate  over, 
"  that  ain't  such  a  bad  job.  Not  so  all-fired 
bad,  for  a  green  hand.  What  did  you  wash  'em 
with?" 

"  A  cloth  I  found  hanging  by  the  sink." 

;'  I  see.  Yes,  yes.  And  you  wiped  'em  on — 
what?" 

'  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  didn't  see  any 
towels  in  sight,  except  that  one  on  the  door;  and, 

27 


THE   WOMAN-HATERS 

for  various  reasons,  I  judged  that  wasn't  a  dish 
towel." 

"  Good  judgment.     'Tisn't.     Go  on." 

"  So  I  hunted  around,  and  in  the  closet  in  the 
parlor,  or  living  room,  or  whatever  you  call  it,  I 
found  a  whole  stack  of  things  that  looked  like 
towels;  so  I  used  one  of  those." 

"  Is  this  it?"  Seth  picked  up  a  damp  and  be 
draggled  cloth  from  the  table. 

"  That's  it.  I  should  have  hung  it  up  some 
where,  I  suppose.  I'll  lose  my  job  if  I  don't  look 
out." 

"Urn!  Well,  I'm  much  obliged  to  you, 
only " 

"Only?" 

"  Only  you  washed  them  dishes  with  the  sink 
cloth  and  wiped  'em  with  a  piller  case." 

The  volunteer  dishwasher's  mouth  opened. 

"No!"  he  gasped. 

"  Ya-as." 

"  A  pillow  case !    Well,  by  George !  " 

"  Um-hm.  I  jedge  you  ain't  washed  many 
dishes  in  your  lifetime." 

"  Not  so  very  many.    No." 

They  looked  at  each  other  and  burst  into  a  roar 
of  laughter.  Brown  was  the  first  to  recover. 

28 


AN    APPLICATION 

:'  Well,"  he  observed,  "  I  guess  it's  up  to  me. 
If  you'll  kindly  put  me  next  to  a  genuine  cloth,  or 
sponge,  or  whatever  is  the  proper  caper  for  dish 
washing,  I'll  undertake  to  do  them  over  again. 
And,  for  heaven's  sake,  lock  up  the  pillow  cases." 

Seth  protested,  declaring  that  the  dishes  need 
not  be  rewashed  that  very  minute,  and  that  when  he 
got  a  chance  he  would  do  them  himself.  But  the 
young  man  was  firm,  and,  at  last,  the  lightkeeper 
yielded. 

"  It's  real  kind  of  you,"  he  declared,  "  and  bein' 
as  I've  consider'ble  to  do,  I  don't  know  but  I'll  let 
you.  Here's  a  couple  of  dishcloths,  and  there's  the 
towels.  I'm  goin'  out  to  see  to  the  lights,  and  I'll 
be  back  pretty  soon  and  get  supper." 

Later  in  the  evening,  after  supper,  the  house 
work  done,  they  sat  again  on  the  bench  beside  the 
door,  each  with  a  pipe,  filled,  this  time,  with  gen 
uine  smoking  tobacco.  Before  and  below  them  was 
the  quiet  sea,  rolling  lazily  under  the  stars.  Over 
head  the  big  lanterns  in  the  towers  thrust  their 
parallel  lances  of  light  afar  into  the  darkness.  The 
only  sounds  were  the  low  wash  of  the  surf  and  the 
hum  of  the  eager  mosquitoes.  Brown  was  silent, 
alternately  puffing  at  the  pipe  and  slapping  at  the 
insects,  which  latter,  apparently  finding  his  skin  eas- 

29 


THE   WOMAN-HATERS 

ier  to  puncture  than  that  of  the  tanned  and  leath 
ery  Atkins,  were  making  the  most  of  their  oppor 
tunity. 

Seth,  whose  curiosity  had  been  checked  but  not 
smothered  by  his  companion's  evident  desire  to  say 
nothing  concerning  himself,  was  busy  thinking  of 
various  guileful  schemes  with  which  to  entrap  the 
castaway  into  the  disclosure  of  his  identity.  Hav 
ing  prepared  his  bait,  he  proceeded  to  get  over  a 
line. 

"  Mr.  Brown,"  he  said,  "  I  ain't  mentioned  it 
to  you  afore,  'count  of  your  needin'  rest  and  grub 
and  all  after  your  fallin'  overboard  last  night. 
But  tomorrer  you'll  be  feelin'  fustrate  again,  and  I 
cal'late  you'll  be  wantin'  to  get  word  to  your  folks. 
Now  we  can  telephone  to  the  Eastboro  depot, 
where  there's  a  telegraph,  and  the  depot  master'll 
send  a  dispatch  to  your  people,  lettin'  'em  know 
you're  all  safe  and  sound.  If  you'll  just  give  me 
the  address  and  what  you  want  to  say,  I'll  'tend  to 
it  myself.  The  depot  master's  a  good  friend  of 
mine,  and  he'll  risk  sending  the  dispatch  '  collect ' 
if  I  tell  him  to." 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  Brown,  shortly. 

"  Oh,  don't  mention  it.  Now  who'll  I  send  it 
to?" 

30 


AN    APPLICATION 

"  You  needn't  send  it.  I  couldn't  think  of  put 
ting  you  to  further  trouble." 

"  Trouble !  'Tain't  no  trouble  to  telephone. 
Land  sakes,  I  do  it  four  or  five  times  a  day.  Now 
who'll  I  send  it  to?" 

"  You  needn't  send  it." 

"  Oh,  well,  of  course,  if  you'd  ruther  send  it 
yourself " 

"  I  sha'n't  send  it.  It  really  isn't  worth  while 
'phoning  or  telegraphing  either.  I  didn't  drown, 
and  I'm  very  comfortable,  thank  you — or  should 
be  if  it  weren't  for  these  mosquitoes." 

"  Comf'table !  Yes,  you're  comf'table,  but  how 
about  your  folks?  Won't  they  learn,  soon's  that 
steamer  gets  into — into  Portland — or— or — New 
York  or  Boston — or  .  .  .  Hey?" 

"  I  didn't  speak." 

Seth  swallowed  hard  and  continued.  "  Well, 
wherever  she  was  bound,"  he  snapped.  "  Won't 
they  learn  that  you  sot  sail  in  her  and  never  got 
there?  Then  they'll  know  that  you  must  have  fell 
overboard." 

John  Brown  drew  a  mouthful  of  smoke  through 
the  stem  of  the  pipe  and  blew  it  spitefully  among 
the  mosquitoes. 

"  I  don't  see  how  they'll  learn  it,"  he  replied. 


THE   WOMAN-HATERS 

"  Why,  the  steamer  folks'll  wire  'em  right 
off." 

"  They'll  have  to  find  them  first." 

"  That'll  be  easy  enough.  There'll  be  your 
name,  '  John  Brown,'  of  such  and  such  a  place, 
written  right  on  the  purser's  book,  won't  it." 

"  No,"  drawled  Mr.  Brown,  "  it  won't." 

The  lightkeeper  felt  very  much  as  if  this  particu 
lar  road  to  the  truth  had  ended  suddenly  in  a  blind 
alley.  He  pulled  viciously  at  his  chin  whiskers. 
His  companion  shifted  his  position  on  the  bench. 
Silence  fell  again,  as  much  silence  as  the  mosquitoes 
would  permit. 

Suddenly  Brown  seemed  to  reach  a  determina 
tion. 

"  Atkins,"  he  said  briskly,  and  with  considerable 
bitterness  in  his  tone,  "  don't  you  worry  about  my 
people.  They  don't  know  where  I  am,  and — well, 
some  of  them,  at  least,  don't  care.  Maybe  I'm  a 
rolling  stone — at  any  rate,  I  haven't  gathered  any 
moss,  any  financial  moss.  I'm  broke.  I  haven't 
any  friends,  any  that  I  wish  to  remember;  I  haven't 
any  job.  I  am  what  you  might  call  down  and  out. 
If  I  had  drowned  when  I  fell  overboard  last  night, 
it  might  have  been  a  good  thing — or  it  might  not. 
We  won't  argue  the  question,  because  just  now  I'm 

32 


AN    APPLICATION 

ready  to  take  either  side.  But  let's  talk  about  your 
self.  You're  lightkeeper  here?" 

"  I  be,  yes." 

"  And  these  particular  lights  seem  to  be  a  good 
way  from  everywhere  and  everybody." 

"  Five  mile  from  Eastboro  Center,  sixteen  from 
Denboro,  and  two  from  the  nighest  life  savin' 
station.  Why?" 

"  Oh,  just  for  instance.  No  neighbors,  you 
said?" 

"  Nary  one." 

"  I  noticed  a  bungalow  just  across  the  brook 
here.  It  seems  to  be  shut  up.  Who  owns  it?" 

"  Bunga — which?  Oh,  that  cottage  over  on 
t'other  side  the  crick?  That  b'longs  to  a  couple  of 
paintin'  fellers  from  up  Boston  way.  Not  house 
painters,  you  understand,  but  fellers  that  put  in 
their  time  paintin'  pictures  of  the  water  and  the 
beach  and  the  like  of  that.  Seems  a  pretty  silly  job 
for  grown-up  men,  but  they're  real  pleasant  and 
folksy.  Don't  put  on  no  airs  nor  nothin.'  They're 
most  gen'rally  here  every  June  and  July  and  Au 
gust,  but  I  understand  they  ain't  comin'  this  year, 
so  the  cottage'll  be  shut  up.  I'll  miss  'em,  kind  of. 
One  of  'em's  name  is  Graham  and  t'other's  Hamil 
ton." 

33 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  I  see.     Many  visitors  to  the  lights?  " 

u  Not  many.  Once  in  a  while  a  picnic  comes 
over  in  a  livery  four-seater,  but  not  often.  The 
same  gang  never  comes  twice.  Road's  too  bad, 
and  they  complain  like  fury  about  the  moskeeters." 

"  Do  they?  How  peevish!  Atkins,  you're  not 
married?  " 

It  was  an  innocent  question,  but  it  had  an  aston 
ishing  effect.  The  lightkeeper  bounced  on  the 
bench  as  if  someone  had  kicked  it  violently  from 
beneath. 

"  What?  "  he  quavered  shrilly.  "  Wha — what's 
that?" 

Brown  was  surprised.  "  I  asked  if  you  were 
married,  that's  all,"  he  said.  "  I  can't  see ' 

"  Stop !  "  Seth's  voice  shook,  and  he  bent  down 
to  glare  through  the  darkness  at  his  companion's 
face.  "Stop!"  he  ordered.  "You  asked  me  if 
I  was — married?" 

"Yes.     Why  shouldn't  I?" 

"Why  shouldn't  you?  See  here,  young  feller, 
you — you — what  made  you  ask  that?  " 

"What  made  me?" 

"  Stop  sayin'  my  words  after  me.  Are  you  a 
man  or  a  poll-parrot?  Can't  you  understand  plain 
United  States  language?  What  made  you?  Or 

34 


AN    APPLICATION 

who  made  you?  Who  told  you  to  ask  me  that 
question?  " 

He  pounded  the  bench  with  his  fist.  The  pair 
stared  at  each  other  for  a  moment;  then  Brown 
leaned  back  and  began  to  whistle.  Seth  seized  him 
by  the  shoulders. 

"  Quit  that  foolishness,  d'you  hear?  "  he  snarled. 
"  Quit  it,  and  answer  me !  " 

The  answer  was  prefaced  by  a  pitying  shake  of 
the  head. 

"  It's  the  mosquitoes,"  observed  the  young 
man,  musingly.  "  They  get  through  and  punc 
ture  the  brain  after  a  time,  I  presume.  I'm  not 
surprised  exactly,  but,"  with  a  sigh,  "  I'm  very 
sorry." 

"  What  are  you  talkin'  about,"  demanded  At 
kins.  "  Be  you  crazy?  " 

"No-o.    7'wnot." 

'  You're  not !     Do  you  mean  that  I  am?  " 

;<  Well,"  slowly,  "  I'm  not  an  expert  in  such 
cases,  but  when  a  perfectly  simple,  commonplace 
question  sets  a  chap  to  pounding  and  screaming  and 
offering  violence,  then — well,  it's  either  insanity  or 
an  attempt  at  insult,  one  or  the  other.  I've  given 
you  the  benefit  of  the  doubt." 

He  scratched  a  match  on  his  heel  and  relit 
35 


THE   WOMAN-HATERS 

his  pipe.  The  lightkeeper  still  stared,  suspicious 
and  puzzled.  Then  he  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  I — I  didn't  mean  to  insult  you,"  he  stam 
mered. 

"  Glad  to  hear  it,  I'm  sure.  If  I  were  you,  how 
ever,  I  should  see  a  doctor  for  the  other  trouble." 

"  And  I  ain't  crazy,  neither.  I  beg  your  pardon 
for  hollerin'  and  grabbin'  hold  of  you." 

"  Granted." 

"  Thank  ye.  Now,"  hesitatingly,  "  would  you 
mind  tellin'  me  why  you  asked  me  if  I  was  mar 
ried?" 

"  Not  in  the  least.  I  asked  merely  because  it 
occurred  to  me  that  you  might  be.  Of  course,  I 
had  seen  nothing  of  your  wife,  but  it  was  barely 
possible  that  she  was  away  on  a  visit,  or  some 
where.  There  is  no  regulation  forbidding  light- 
keepers  marrying — at  least,  I  never  heard  of  any 
— and  so  I  asked;  that's  all." 

Seth  nodded.  "  I  see,"  he  said,  slowly;  "yes, 
yes,  I  see.  So  you  didn't  have  no  special  reason." 

"  I  did  not.  Of  course,  if  I  had  realized  that 
you  were  subject  to — er — fits,  I  should  have  been 
more  careful." 

"  Hum  !  .  .  .  Well,  I — I  beg  your  pardon 
again.  I — I  am  kind  of  touchy  on  some  p'ints. 

36 


AN    APPLICATION 

Didn't  I  tell  you  no  women  came  here?  Married! 
A  wife !  Do  I  look  like  a  dum  fool?  " 

"  Not  now." 

'  Well,  then !  And  I've  apologized  for  bein' 
one  a  few  minutes  ago,  ain't  I." 

'  Yes,  you  have.  No  grudge  on  my  part,  I  as 
sure  you.  Let's  forget  it  and  talk  of  something 
else." 

They  did,  but  the  dialogue  was  rather  jerky. 
Brown  was  thinking,  and  Atkins  seemed  moody 
and  disinclined  to  talk.  After  a  time  he  announced 
that  it  was  getting  late  and  he  cal'lated  he  would 
go  up  to  the  light  room.  "  You'd  better  turn  in," 
he  added,  rising. 

"  Just  a  minute,"  said  the  young  man.  "  Wait 
just  a  minute.  Atkins,  suppose  I  asked  you  another 
question — would  you  become  violent  at  once?  or 
merely  by  degrees?  " 

Seth  frowned.  The  suspicious  look  returned  to 
his  face. 

"  Humph!  "  he  grunted.  "  Depended  on  what 
you  asked  me,  maybe." 

1  Yes.  Well,  this  one  is  harmless — at  least,  I 
hope  it  is.  I  thought  the  other  was,  also,  but 
I  ...  There  !  there  !  be  calm.  Sit  down  again 
and  listen.  This  question  is  nothing  like  that.  It's 

*  37 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

about  that  assistant  of  yours,  the  chap  who  left  a 
day  or  two  before  I  drifted  in.  What  were  his 
duties?  What  did  he  have  to  do  when  he  was 
here?" 

"  Wa-al,"  drawled  Seth  with  sarcasm,  resuming 
his  seat  on  the  bench;  "  he  was  supposed  to  do  con- 
sider'ble  many  things.  Stand  watch  and  watch 
with  me,  and  scrub  brass  and  clean  up  around,  and 
sweep  and  wash  dishes  and — and — well,  make 
himself  gen'rally  useful.  Them  was  the  duties  he 
was  supposed  to  have.  What  he  done  was  dif- 
f'rent.  Pesky  loafer!  Why?" 

"  That's  what  I'm  going  to  tell  you.  Have  they 
appointed  his  successor  yet?  Have  you  got  any 
one  to  take  his  place?  " 

"  No.  Fact  is,  I'd  ought  to  have  telegraphed 
right  off  to  the  Board,  but  I  ain't.  I  was  so  glad 
to  see  the  last  of  him  that  I  kept  puttin'  it  off.  I'll 
do  it  tomorrer." 

"  Perhaps  you  won't  need  to." 

"  Course  I'll  need  to!  Why  not?  Got  to  have 
somebody  to  help.  That's  rules  and  regulations; 
and,  besides,  I  can't  keep  awake  day  and  night,  too. 
What  makes  you  think  I  won't  need  to?  " 

The  young  man  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe. 
Rising,  he  laid  a  hand  on  his  companion's  shoulder. 

38 


AN    APPLICATION 

"  Because  you've  got  an  assistant  right  here  on 
the  premises,"  he  said.  "  Delivered  by  the  Atlan 
tic  express  right  at  your  door.  Far  be  it  from  me 
to  toot  my  horn,  Mr.  Atkins,  or  to  proclaim  my 
merits  from  the  housetops.  But,  speaking  as  one 
discerning  person  to  another,  when  it  comes  to  an 
Ai,  first  chop  lightkeeper's  assistant,  I  ask: 
'  What's  the  matter  with  yours  truly,  John 
Brown?'" 

Seth's  reply  was  not  in  words.  The  hand  hold 
ing  his  pipe  fell  limp  upon  his  lap,  and  he  stared 
at  the  speaker.  The  latter,  entirely  unabashed, 
waved  an  airy  gesture,  and  continued. 

"  I  repeat,"  he  said,  "  *  What's  the  matter  with 
John  Brown?'  And  echo  answers,  'He's  all 
right !  '  I  am  a  candidate  for  the  position  of  assist 
ant  keeper  at  Eastboro  Twin-Lights." 

"  You?  " 

"  Me." 

u  But — but — aw,  go  on !     You're  foolin'." 

"  Not  a  fool.  I  mean  it.  I  am  here.  I'm  green, 
but  in  the  sunshine  of  your  experience  I  agree 
to  ripen  rapidly.  I  can  wash  dishes — you've 
seen  me.  I  believe  I  could  scrub  brass  and 
sweep." 

'  You  wantin'  to  be  assistant  at  a  place  like  this ! 

39 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

You!  an  edicated,  able  young  chap,  that's  been  used 
to  valets  and  servants  and " 

"Why  do  you  say  that?  How  do  you  know 
I've  been  used  to  those  things?  " 

'  'Cause,  as  I  hinted  to  you  a  spell  ago,  I  ain't 
altogether  a  dum  fool.  I  can  put  two  and  two  to 
gether  and  make  four,  without  having  the  example 
done  for  me  on  a  blackboard.  You're  a  rich  man's 
son;  you've  been  used  to  sassiety  and  city  ways  and 
good  clothes.  You  wantin'  to  put  in  your  days  and 
nights  in  a  forsaken  hole  like  this !  Nonsense ! 
Get  out!" 

But  Mr.  Brown  refused  to  get  out. 

"  No  nonsense  about  it,"  he  declared.  "  It  is 
the  hand  of  Fate.  With  the  whole  broadside  of 
Cape  Cod  to  land  upon,  why  was  I  washed  ashore 
just  at  this  particular  spot?  Answer: — Because  at 
this  spot,  at  this  time,  Eastboro  Twin-Lights 
needed  an  assistant  keeper.  I  like  the  spot.  It  is 
beautiful.  '  Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ig 
noble  strife.'  With  your  permission,  I'll  stay  here. 
The  leopard  may  or  may  not  change  his  spots, 
but  I  sha'n't.  I  like  this  one  and  here  I  stay.  Yes, 
I  mean  it.  I  stay — as  your  assistant.  Come,  what 
do  you  say?  Is  it  a  go?  " 

The  lightkeeper  rose  once  more.     "  I'm  goin'  on 
40 


AN    APPLICATION 

watch,"  he  said  with  decision.  "  You  turn  in. 
You'll  feel  better  in  the  mornin'." 

He  started  towards  the  tower.  But  John  Brown 
sprang  from  the  bench  and  followed  him. 

"  Not  until  you've  answered  my  question,"  he 
declared.  "Am  I  to  be  your  assistant?  " 

"  No,  course  you  ain't.  It's  dum  foolishness. 
Besides,  I  ain't  got  the  say;  the  government  hires 
its  own  keepers." 

"  But  you  can  square  the  government.  That 
will  be  easy.  Why,"  with  a  modest  gesture, 
"  look  what  the  government  is  getting.  It 
will  jump  at  the  chance.  Atkins,  you  must  say 
yes." 

"  I  sha'n't,  neither.  Let  go  of  my  arm.  It's 
blame  foolishness,  I  tell  you.  Why,"  impa 
tiently,  "  course  it's  foolishness !  I  don't  know  the 
first  thing  about  you." 

'What  of  it?  I  don't  know  anything  about 
you,  either." 

Again  the  lightkeeper  seemed  unaccountably  agi 
tated.  He  stopped  in  his  stride  and  whirled  to  face 
his  companion. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  he  demanded 
fiercely.  Before  the  young  man  could  reply,  he 
turned  again,  strode  to  the  door  of  the  light,  flung 

41 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

it  open,  and  disappeared  within.  The  door  closed 
behind  him  with  a  thunderous  bang. 

John  Brown  gazed  after  him  in  bewilderment. 
Then  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  returned  to 
the  bench. 

The  surf  at  the  foot  of  the  bluff  grumbled  and 
chuckled  wickedly,  as  if  it  knew  all  of  poor  human 
ity's  secrets  and  found  a  cynic's  enjoyment  in  the 
knowledge. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   COMING  OF  JOB 

THE  next  morning  Seth  was  gloomy  and 
uncommunicative.  At  the  breakfast  ta 
ble,  when  Brown  glanced  up  from  his 
plate,  he  several  times  caught  the  lightkeeper  look 
ing  intently  at  him  with  the  distrustful,  half-sus 
picious  gaze  of  the  night  before.  Though  quite 
aware  of  this  scrutiny,  he  made  no  comment  upon 
it  until  the  meal  was  nearly  over;  then  he  observed 
suddenly : 

"  It's  all  right;  you  needn't." 

"Needn't  what?"  demanded  Atkins,  in  aston 
ishment. 

"  Look  at  me  as  if  you  expected  me  to  explode 
at  any  minute.  I  sha'n't.  I'm  not  loaded." 

Seth  colored,  under  his  coat  of  sunburn,  and 
seemed  embarrassed. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you're  talkin'  about,"  he 
stammered.  "  Have  the  moskeeters  affected  your 
brains?  " 

43 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  No.  My  brains,  such  as  they  are,  are  all  right, 
and  I  want  to  keep  them  so.  That's  why  I  request 
you  not  to  look  at  me  in  that  way." 

"  How  was  I  lookin'  at  you  ?  I  don't  know 
what  you  mean." 

"  Yes,  you  do.  You  are  wondering  how  much 
I  know.  I  don't  know  anything  and  I'm  not  curi 
ous.  That's  the  truth.  Now  why  not  let  it  go  at 
that?" 

"  See  here,  young  feller,  I " 

"No;  you  see  here.  I'm  not  an  Old  Sleuth; 
I  haven't  any  ambitions  that  way.  I  don't  know 
anything  about  you — what  you've  been,  what 
you've  done " 

"  Done !  "  Seth  leaned  across  the  table  so  sud 
denly  that  he  upset  his  chair.  "  Done?  "  he  cried; 
"  what  do  you  mean  by  that?  Who  said  I'd  done 
anything?  It's  a  lie." 

"What  is  a  lie?" 

"Why — why — er — whatever  they  said!" 

"Who  said?" 

"  Why,  the  ones  that — that  said  what  you  said 
they  said." 

"  I  didn't  say  anyone  had  said  anything." 

"  Then  what  do  you  mean  by — by  hintin'  ? 
Hey?  What  do  you  mean  by  it?  " 

44 


THE    COMING    OF   JOB 

He  brandished  a  clenched  fist  over  the  breakfast 
dishes.  Brown  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  closed 
his  eyes. 

"  Call  me  when  the  patient  recovers  his  senses," 
he  drawled  wearily.  "  This  delirium  is  painful  to 
a  sensitive  nature." 

Atkins's  fist  wavered  in  mid-air,  opened,  and 
was  drawn  across  its  owner's  forehead. 

"Well,  by  jiminy!  "  exclaimed  the  lightkeeper 
with  emphasis,  "  this  is — is —  ...  I  guess  I  be 
crazy.  If  I  ain't,  you  are.  Would  you  mind  tellin' 
me  what  in  time  you  mean  by  that?  " 

"It  is  not  the  mosquitoes," continued  his  compan 
ion,  in  apparent  soliloquy;  "  there  are  no  mosqui 
toes  at  present.  It  must  be  the  other  thing,  of 
course.  But  so  early  in  the  morning,  and  so  vio 
lent.  Alcohol  is " 

"  Shut  up!  "  It  was  not  a  request,  but  an  order. 
Brown  opened  his  eyes. 

"  You  were  addressing  me?  "  he  asked,  blandly. 
"Yes?" 

"  Addressin'  you  !  For  thunder  sakes,  who  else 
would  I  be  ad —  .  .  .  There  I  there !  Now  I  cal'- 
late  you're  hintin'  that  I'm  drunk.  I  ain't." 

"Indeed?" 

"  Yes,  indeed.     And  I  ain't  out  of  my  head — 

45 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

not  yet;  though  keepin'  company  with  a  Bedlamite 
may  have  some  effect,  I  shouldn't  wonder.  Mr. 
John  Brown — if  that's  your  name,  which  I  doubt 
— you  listen  to  me." 

"  Very  well,  Mr.  Seth  Atkins — if  that  is  your 
name,  which  I  neither  doubt  nor  believe,  not  be 
ing  particularly  interested — I'm  listening.  Pro 
ceed." 

'  You  told  me  last  night  that  you  wanted  the 
job  of  assistant  keeper  here  at  these  lights.  Course 
you  didn't  mean  it." 

"  I  did." 

'  You  did!  .  .  .  Well,  you  must  be  drunk 
or  loony." 

"  I'm  neither.  And  I  meant  it.  I  want  the 
job." 

Seth  looked  at  him,  and  he  looked  at  Seth.  At 
length  the  lightkeeper  spoke  again. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  I  don't  understand 
It  at  all,  but  never  mind.  Whatever  happens, 
we've  got  to  understand  each  other.  Mind 
I  don't  say  the  job's  yours,  even  if  we  do; 
but  we  can't  even  think  of  it  unless  we  understand 
each  other  plain.  To  begin  with,  I  want  to  tell 
you  that  I  ain't  done  nothin'  that's  crooked,  nor 
wicked,  nor  nothin'  but  what  I  think  is  right 

46 


THE    COMING    OF   JOB 

and  what  I'd  do  over  again.  Do  you  believe 
that?" 

"  Certainly.  As  I  told  you,  I'm  not  interested, 
but  I'll  believe  it  with  pleasure  if  you  wish  me  to." 

"  I  don't  wish  nothin'.  You've  got  to  believe  it. 
And  whether  you  stay  here  ten  minutes  or  ten 
years  you've  got  to  mind  your  own  business.  I 
won't  have  any  hints  or  questions  about  me — from 
you  nor  nobody  else.  '  Mind  your  own  business,' 
that's  the  motto  of  Eastboro  Twin-Lights,  while 
I'm  boss  of  'em.  If  you  don't  like  it — well,  the 
village  is  only  five  mile  off,  and  I'll  p'int  out  the 
road  to  you." 

He  delivered  this  ultimatum  with  extraordinary 
energy.  Then  he  reached  for  his  overturned  chair, 
set  it  on  its  legs,  and  threw  himself  into  it. 
"  Well,"  he  demanded,  after  a  moment;  "  what  do 
you  say  to  that?  " 

"  Hurrah!  "  replied  Mr.  Brown  cheerfully. 

"Hurrah?  For  the  land  sakes!  .  .  .  Say, 
can't  you  talk  sensible,  if  you  try  real  hard  and  set 
your  mind  to  it  ?  What  is  there  to  hurrah  about  ?  " 

"  Everything.  The  whole  situation.  Atkins," 
Brown  leaned  forward  now  and  spoke  with  earn 
estness,  "  I  like  your  motto.  It  suits  me.  '  Mind 
your  own  business '  suits  me  down  to  the  ground. 

47 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

It  proves  that  you  and  I  were  made  to  work  to 
gether  in  a  place  just  like  this." 
"  Does,  hey?     I  want  to  know!  " 
'  You  do  know.     Why,  just  think :  each  of  us 
has  pleaded  '  not  guilty.'     We've  done  nothing — 
we're  entirely  innocent — and  we  want  to  forget  it. 
I  agree  not  to  ask  you  how  old  you  are,  nor  why 
you  wear  your  brand  of  whiskers,  nor  how  you  like 
them,  nor— nor  anything.    I  agree  not  to  ask  ques 
tions  at  all." 

"  Humph  !   but  you  asked  some  last  night." 
"  Purely  by  accident.    You  didn't  answer  them. 
You  asked  me  some,  also,  if  you  will  remember, 
and  I  didn't  answer  them,  either.    Good  !   We  for 
get  everything  and  agree  not  to  do  it  again." 
"  Ugh !    I  tell  you  I  ain't  done  nothin'." 
"  I  know.     Neither  have  I.     Let  the  dead  past 
be  its  own  undertaker,  so  far  as  we  are  concerned. 
I'm  honest,  Atkins,  and  tolerably  straight.     I  be 
lieve  you  are;  I  really  do.      But  we  don't  care  to 
talk  about  ourselves,  that's  all.    And,  fortunately, 
kind  Providence  has  brought  us  together  in  a  place 
where  there's  no  one  else  to  talk.     I  like  you,   I 
credit  you  with  good  taste ;  therefore,  you  must  like 
me." 

"Hey?     Ho,  ho!  "    Seth  laughed,  in  spite  of 
48 


THE    COMING    OF   JOB 

himself.     "  Young  man,"  he  observed,  "  you  ain't 
cultivated  your  modesty  under  glass,  have  you?  " 

Brown  smiled.  "  Joking  aside,"  he  said,  "  I 
don't  see  why  I  shouldn't,  in  time,  make  an  ideal 
assistant  lightkeeper.  Give  me  a  trial,  at  any  rate. 
I  need  an  employer;  you  need  a  helper.  Here  we 
both  are.  Come;  it  is  a  bargain,  isn't  it?  Any 
brass  to  be  scrubbed — boss?  " 

Of  course,  had  Eastboro  Twin-Lights  been  an 
important  station,  the  possibility  of  John  Brown's 
remaining  there  would  have  been  nonexistent.  If 
it  had  been  winter,  or  even  early  spring  or  fall,  a 
regular  assistant  would  have  been  appointed  at 
once,  and  the  castaway  given  his  walking  papers. 
If  Seth  Atkins  had  not  been  Seth  Atkins,  particu 
lar  friend  of  the  district  superintendent,  matters 
might  have  been  different.  But  the  Eastboro  lights 
were  unimportant,  merely  a  half-way  mark  between 
Orham  on  the  one  hand  and  the  powerful  Seaboard 
Heights  beacon  on  the  other.  It  was  the  beginning 
of  summer,  when  wrecks  almost  never  occurred. 
And  the  superintendent  liked  Seth,  and  Seth  liked 
him.  So,  although  Mr.  Atkins  still  scoffed  at  his 
guest's  becoming  a  permanent  fixture  at  the  lights, 
and  merely  consented,  after  more  parley,  to  see  if 

49 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

he  couldn't  arrange  for  him  to  "  hang  around  and 
help  a  spell  until  somebody  else  was  sent,"  the  con 
versation  with  the  superintendent  over  the  long  dis 
tance  'phone  resulted  more  favorably  for  Brown 
than  that  nonchalant  young  gentleman  had  a  rea 
sonable  right  to  expect. 

'  The  Lord  knows  who  I  can  send  you  now,  At 
kins  !  "  said  the  superintendent.  "  I  can't  think  of  a 
man  anywhere  that  can  be  spared.  If  you  can  get 
on  for  a  day  or  two  longer,  I'll  try  to  get  a  helper 
down  !  but  where  he's  coming  from  I  don't  see." 

Then  Seth  sprung  the  news  that  he  had  a  "  sort 
of  helper  "  already.  "  He's  a  likely  young  chap 
enough,"  admitted  the  lightkeeper,  whispering  the 
words  into  the  transmitter,  in  order  that  the  "  likely 
young  chap"  might  not  hear;  "but  he's  purty 
green  yet.  He  wants  the  reg'lar  job  and,  give  me 
time  enough,  I  cal'late  I  can  break  him  in.  Yes, 
I'm  pretty  sure  I  can.  And  it's  the  off  season,  so 
there  really  ain't  no  danger.  In  a  month  he'd  be 
doin'  fust-rate." 

"Who  is  he?  Where  did  he  come  from?" 
asked  the  superintendent. 

"Name's  Brown.  He  come  from — from  off  here 
a  ways,"  was  the  strictly  truthful  answer.  "  He 
used  to  be  on  a  steamboat." 

50 


THE    COMING    OF   JOB 

"  All  right.  If  you'll  take  a  share  of  the  re 
sponsibility,  I'll  take  the  rest.  And,  as  soon  as  I 
can,  I'll  send  you  a  regular  man." 

"  I  can't  pay  you  no  steady  wages,"  Seth  ex 
plained  to  his  new  helper.  "  Salaries  come  from 
the  gov'ment,  and,  until  they  say  so,  I  ain't  got 
no  right  to  do  it.  And  I  can't  let  you  monkey  with 
the  lights,  except  to  clean  up  around  and  such. 
If  you  want  to  stay  a  spell,  until  an  assistant's  ap- 
p'inted,  I'll  undertake  to  be  responsible  for  your 
keep.  And  if  you  need  some  new  shoes  or  stockin's 
or  a  cap,  or  the  like  of  that,  I'll  see  you  get  'em. 
Further'n  that  I  can't  go  yet.  It's  a  pretty  poor 
job  for  a  fellow  like  you,  and  if  /  was  you  I 
wouldn't  take  it." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  would,"  replied  Brown,  with  con 
viction.  "  If  you  were  I,  you  would  take  it  with 
bells  on.  Others  may  yearn  for  the  strenuous  life, 
but  not  your  humble  servant.  As  for  me,  I  stay 
here  and  '  clean  up  around.'  ' 

And  stay  he  did,  performing  the  cleaning  up  and 
other  duties  with  unexpected  success  and  zeal.  At 
kins,  for  the  first  day  or  two,  watched  him  intently, 
being  still  a  trifle  suspicious  and  fearful  of  his 
"  substitute  assistant."  But  as  time  passed  and  the 
latter  asked  no  more  questions,  seemed  not  in  the 


THE   WOMAN-HATERS 

least  curious  concerning  his  superior,  and  remained 
the  same  cool,  easy-going,  cheerful  individual 
whom  Seth  had  found  asleep  on  the  beach,  the 
lightkeeper's  suspicions  were  ended.  It  was  true 
that  Brown  was  as  mysterious  and  secretive  as  ever 
concerning  his  own  past,  but  that  had  been  a  part 
of  their  bargain.  Atkins,  who  prided  himself  on 
being  a  judge  of  human  nature,  decided  that  his 
helper  was  a  young  gentleman  in  trouble,  but  that 
the  trouble,  whatever  it  might  be,  involved  nothing 
criminal  or  dishonest.  That  he  was  a  gentleman, 
he  was  sure — his  bearing  and  manner  proved  that; 
but  he  was  a  gentleman  who  did  not  "  put  on  airs." 
Not  that  there  wras  any  reason  why  he  should  put 
on  airs,  but,  so  far  as  that  was  concerned,  there 
was  no  apparent  reason  for  the  monumental  conceit 
and  condescension  of  some  of  the  inflated  city 
boarders  in  the  village.  Brown  was  not  like  those 
people  at  all. 

Seth  had  taken  a  fancy  to  him  at  their  first  meet 
ing.  Now  his  liking  steadily  increased.  Compan 
ionship  in  a  lonely  spot  like  Eastboro  Twin-Lights 
is  a  test  of  a  man's  temper.  Brown  stood  the  test 
well.  If  he  made  mistakes  in  the  work — and  he 
did  make  some  ridiculous  ones — he  cheerfully  un 
did  them  when  they  were  pointed  out  to  him.  He 

52 


THE    COMING    OF   JOB 

was,  for  the  most  part,  good-natured  and  willing 
to  talk,  though  there  were  periods  when  he  seemed 
depressed  and  wandered  off  by  himself  along  the 
beach  or  sat  by  the  edge  of  the  bluff,  staring  out  to 
sea.  The  lightkeeper  made  no  comment  on  this 
trait  in  his  character.  It  helped  to  confirm  his  own 
judgment  concerning  the  young  fellow's  trouble. 
People  in  trouble  were  subject  to  fits  of  the 
"  blues,"  and  during  these  fits  they  liked  to  be 
alone.  Seth  knew  this  from  his  own  experience. 
There  were  times  when  he,  too,  sought  solitude. 

He  trusted  his  helper  more  and  more.  He  did 
not,  of  course,  permit  him  to  take  the  night  watch 
in  the  lights,  but  he  did  trust  him  to  the  extent  of 
leaving  him  alone  for  a  whole  afternoon  while  he 
drove  the  old  horse,  attached  to  the  antique  "  open 
wagon  " — both  steed  and  vehicle  a  part  of  the  gov 
ernment  property — over  to  Eastboro  to  purchase 
tobacco  and  newspapers  at  the  store.  On  his  re 
turn  he  found  everything  as  it  should  be,  and  this 
test  led  him  to  make  others,  each  of  which  was 
successful  in  proving  John  Brown  faithful  over  a 
few  things  and,  therefore,  in  time,  to  be  intrusted 
with  many  and  more  important  ones. 

Brown,  on  his  part,  liked  Seth.  He  had  pro 
fessed  to  like  him  during  the  conversation  at  the 

5  53 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

breakfast  table  which  resulted  in  his  remaining  at 
the  lights,  but  then  he  was  not  entirely  serious.  He 
was,  of  course,  grateful  for  the  kindness  shown 
him  by  the  odd  longshoreman  and  enjoyed  the  lat- 
ter's  society  and  droll  remarks  as  he  would  have 
enjoyed  anything  out  of  the  ordinary  and  quaintly 
amusing.  But  now  he  really  liked  the  man.  Seth 
Atkins  was  a  countryman,  and  a  marked  contrast  to 
any  individual  Brown  had  ever  met,  but  he  was  far 
from  being  a  fool.  He  possessed  a  fund  of  dry 
common  sense,  and  his  comments  on  people  and 
happenings  in  the  world — a  knowledge  of  which 
he  derived  from  the  newspapers  and  magazines  ob 
tained  on  his  trips  to  Eastboro — were  a  constant 
delight.  And,  more  than  all,  he  respected  his  com 
panion's  desire  to  remain  a  mystery.  Brown  de 
cided  that  Atkins  was,  as  he  had  jokingly  called 
him,  a  man  with  a  past.  What  that  past  might  be, 
he  did  not  know  or  try  to  learn.  "  Mind  your  own 
business,"  Seth  had  declared  to  be  the  motto  of 
Eastboro  Twin-Lights,  and  that  motto  suited  both 
parties  to  the  agreement. 

The  lightkeeper  stood  watch  in  the  tower  at 
night.  During  most  of  the  day  he  slept;  but,  after 
the  first  week  was  over,  and  his  trust  in  his  helper 
became  more  firm,  he  developed  the  habit  of  rising 

54 


THE    COMING   OF   JOB 

at  two  in  the  afternoon,  eating  a  breakfast — or 
dinner,  or  whatever  the  meal  might  be  called — 
and  wandering  off  along  the  crooked  road  leading 
south  and  in  the  direction  of  Pounddug  Slough. 
The  road,  little  used  and  grass  grown,  twisted  and 
turned  amid  the  dunes  until  it  disappeared  in  a  dis 
tant  grove  of  scrub  oaks  and  pitch  pines.  Each 
afternoon — except  on  Sundays  and  on  the  occasions 
of  his  excursions  to  the  village — Atkins  would  rise 
from  the  table,  saunter  to  the  door  to  look  at  the 
weather,  and  then,  without  excuse  or  explanation, 
start  slowly  down  the  road.  For  the  first  hundred 
yards  he  sauntered,  then  the  saunter  became  a  brisk 
walk,  and  when  he  reached  the  edge  of  the  grove 
he  was  hurrying  almost  at  a  dog  trot.  Sometimes 
he  carried  a  burden  with  him,  a  brown  paper  parcel 
brought  from  Eastboro,  a  hammer,  a  saw,  or  a  coil 
of  rope.  Once  he  descended  to  the  boathouse  at 
the  foot  of  the  bluff  by  the  inlet  and  emerged  bear 
ing  a  big  bundle  of  canvas,  apparently  an  old  sail; 
this  he  arranged,  with  some  difficulty,  on  his  shoul 
der  and  stumbled  up  the  slope,  past  the  corner  of 
the  house  and  away  toward  the  grove.  Brown 
watched  him  wonderingly.  Where  was  he  going, 
and  why?  What  was  the  mysterious  destination 
of  all  these  tools  and  old  junk?  Where  did  Seth 

55 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

spend  his  afternoons  and  why,  when  he  returned, 
did  his  hands  and  clothes  smell  of  tar?  The  sub 
stitute  assistant  was  puzzled,  but  he  asked  no  ques 
tions.  And  Seth  volunteered  no  solution  of  the 
puzzle. 

Yet  the  solution  came,  and  in  an  unexpected 
way.  Seth  drove  to  the  village  one  afternoon  and 
returned  with  literature,  smoking  materials  and  an 
announcement.  The  latter  he  made  during  supper. 

"  I  tried  to  buy  that  fly  paper  we  wanted  today," 
he  observed,  as  a  preliminary.  "  Couldn't  get 
none.  All  out." 

"  But  will  have  some  in  very  shortly,  I  pre 
sume,"  suggested  the  assistant,  who  knew  the  idio 
syncrasies  of  country  stores. 

"  Oh,  yes,  sartin !  Expectin'  it  every  minute. 
That  store's  got  a  consider'ble  sight  more  expec 
tations  in  it  than  it  has  anything  else.  They're  al 
ways  six  months  ahead  of  the  season  or  behind  it 
in  that  store.  When  it's  so  cold  that  the  snow  birds 
get  chilblains  they'll  have  the  shelves  chuck  full  of 
fly  paper.  Now,  when  it's  hotter  than  a  kittle  of 
pepper  tea,  the  bulk  of  their  stock  is  ice  picks  and 
mittens.  Bah !  However,  they're  goin'  to  send 
the  fly  paper  over  when  it  comes,  along  with  the 
dog." 

56 


THE    COMING    OF   JOB 

'The  dog?"  repeated  Brown  in  amazement. 
'  Yup.  That's  what  I  was  goin'  to  tell  you — 
about  the  dog.  I  ordered  a  dog  today.  Didn't 
pay  nothin'  for  him,  you  understand.  Henry  G., 
the  storekeeper,  gave  him  to  me.  The  boy'll  fetch 
him  down  when  he  fetches  the  fly  paper." 

"A  dog?  We're — you're  going  to  keep  a  dog 
—here?" 

"  Sure  thing.  Why  not?  Got  room  enough  to 
keep  a  whole  zoological  menagerie  if  we  wanted 
to,  ain't  we?  Besides,  a  dog'll  be  handy  to  have 
around.  Bill  Foster,  the  life  saver,  told  me  that 
somebody  busted  into  the  station  henhouse  one 
night  a  week  ago  and  got  away  with  four  of  their 
likeliest  pullets.  He  cal'lates  'twas  tramps  or 
boys.  We  don't  keep  hens,  but  there's  some  stuff 
in  that  boathouse  I  wouldn't  want  stole,  and,  bein' 
as  there's  no  lock  on  the  door,  a  dog  would  be  a 
sort  of  protection,  as  you  might  say." 

"  But  thieves  would  never  come  way  down  here." 

"  Why  not?  'Tain't  any  further  away  from  the 
rest  of  creation  than  the  life  savin'  station,  is  it? 
Anyhow,  Henry  G.  give  the  dog  to  me  free  for 
nothin',  and  that's  a  miracle  of  itself.  You'd  say 
so,  too,  if  you  knew  Henry.  I  was  so  surprised 
that  I  said  I'd  take  it  right  off;  felt  'twould  be 

57 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

flyin'  in  the  face  of  Providence  not  to.  A  miracle 
— jumpin'  Judas!  I  never  knew  Henry  to  give 
anybody  anything  afore — unless  'twas  the  small 
pox,  and  then  'twan't  a  genuine  case,  nothin'  but 
varioloid." 

"  But  what  kind  of  a  dog  is  it?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Henry  used  to  own  the  mother 
of  it,  and  she  was  one  quarter  mastiff  and  the  rest 
assorted  varieties.  This  one  he's  givin'  me  ain't  a 
whole  dog,  you  see;  just  a  half-grown  pup.  The 
varioloid  all  over  again — hey?  Ho,  ho!  I  didn't 
really  take  him  for  sartin,  you  understand;  just  on 
trial.  If  we  like  him,  we'll  keep  him,  that's  all." 

The  third  afternoon  following  this  announce 
ment,  Brown  was  alone  in  the  kitchen,  and  busy. 
Seth  had  departed  on  one  of  his  mysterious  excur 
sions,  carrying  a  coil  of  rope,  a  pulley  and  a  gallon 
can  of  paint.  Before  leaving  the  house  he  had 
given  his  helper  some  instructions  concerning  sup 
per. 

"  Might's  well  have  a  lobster  tonight,"  he  said. 
"  Ever  cook  a  lobster,  did  you?  " 

No,  Mr.  Brown  had  never  cooked  a  lobster. 

"  Well,  it's  simple  enough.  All  you've  got  to 
do  is  bile  him.  Bile  him  in  hot  water  till  he's 
done." 

58 


THE    COMING   OF   JOB 

"  I  see."  The  substitute  assistant  was  not  enthu 
siastic.  Cooking  he  did  not  love. 

"Humph!"  he  grunted.  "I  imagined  if  he 
was  boiled  at  all,  it  was  be  in  hot  water,  not  cold." 

Atkins  chuckled.  "  I  mean  you  want  to  have  the 
water  bilin'  hot  when  you  put  him  in,"  he  ex 
plained.  "  Wait  till  she  biles  up  good  and  then 
souse  him;  see?  " 

"  I  guess  so.  How  do  you  know  when  he's 
done?" 

"  Oh — er — I  can't  tell  you.  You'll  have  to  trust 
to  your  instinct,  I  cal'late.  When  he  looks  done, 
he  is  done,  most  gen'rally  speakin'." 

"  Dear  me  !  how  clear  you  make  it.  Would  you 
mind  hintin'  as  to  how  he  looks  when  he's  done?  " 

"  Why — why,  done,  of  course." 

'  Yes,  of  course.  How  stupid  of  me !  He  is 
done  when  he  looks  done,  and  when  he  looks  done 
he  is  done.  Any  child  could  follow  those  direc 
tions.  How  is  he  done — brown  ?  " 

"  No.  Brown !  the  idea  !  Red,  of  course.  He's 
green  when  you  put  him  in  the  kittle,  and  when 
you  take  him  out,  he's  red.  That's  one  way  you 
can  tell." 

"  Yes,  that  will  help  some.  All  right,  I'll  boil 
him  till  he's  red,  you  needn't  worry  about  that." 

59 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  Oh,  I  sha'n't  worry.  So  long.  I'll  be  back 
about  six  or  so.  Put  him  in  when  the  water's  good 
and  hot,  and  you'll  come  out  all  right." 

"  Thank  you.  I  hope  he  will,  but  I  have  my 
doubts.  Where  is  he?  " 

"Who?  the  lobster?  There's  dozens  down  in 
the  car  by  the  wharf.  Lift  the  cover  and  fish  one 
out  with  the  dip  net.  Pick  out  the  biggest  one 
you  can  find,  'cause  I'm  likely  to  be  hungry  when  I 
get  back,  and  your  appetite  ain't  a  hummin'  bird's. 
There!  I've  got  to  go  if  I  want  to  get  anything 
done  afore —  .  .  .  Humph !  never  mind.  So 
long." 

He  hurried  away,  as  if  conscious  that  he  had 
said  more  than  he  intended.  At  the  corner  of  the 
house  he  turned  to  call: 

"  I  say!  Brown!  be  kind  of  careful  when  you 
dip  him  out.  None  of  'em  are  plugged." 

"What?" 

"  I  say  none  of  them  lobsters'  claws  are  plugged. 
I  didn't  have  time  to  plug  the  last  lot  I  got  from 
my  pots,  so  you  want  to  handle  'em  careful  like, 
else  they'll  nip  you.  Tote  the  one  you  pick  out  up 
to  the  house  in  the  dip-net;  then  you'll  be  all 
right." 

Evidently  considering  this  warning  sufficient  to 
60 


THE    COMING   OF   JOB 

prevent  any  possible  trouble,  he  departed.  John 
Brown  seated  himself  in  the  armchair  by  the  door 
and  gazed  at  the  sea.  He  gazed  and  thought  until 
he  could  bear  to  think  no  longer;  then  he  rose  and 
entered  the  kitchen,  where  he  kindled  a  fire  in  the 
range  and  filled  a  kettle  with  water.  Having  thus 
made  ready  the  sacrificial  altar,  he  took  the  long- 
handled  dip-net  from  its  nail  and  descended  the 
bluff  to  the  wharf. 

The  lobster  car,  a  good-sized  affair  of  laths 
with  a  hinged  cover  closing  the  opening  in  its  upper 
surface,  was  floating  under  the  wharf,  to  which  it 
was  attached  by  a  rope.  Brown  knelt  on  the  string- 
piece  and  peered  down  at  it.  It  floated  deep  in 
the  water,  the  tide  rippling  strongly  through  it,  be 
tween  the  laths.  The  cover  was  fastened  with  a 
wooden  button. 

The  substitute  assistant,  after  a  deal  of  futile 
and  exasperating  poking  with  the  handle  of  the  net, 
managed  to  turn  the  button  and  throw  back  the 
leather-hinged  cover.  Through  the  square  open 
ing  the  water  beneath  looked  darkly  green.  There 
was  much  seaweed  in  the  car,  and  occasionally  this 
weed  was  stirred  by  living  things  which  moved 
sluggishly. 

John  Brown  reversed  the  net,  and,  lying  flat  on 
61 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

the  wharf,  gingerly  thrust  the  business  end  of  the 
contrivance  through  the  opening  and  into  the  dark, 
weed-streaked  water.  Then  he  began  feeling  for 
his  prey. 

He  could  feel  it.  Apparently  the  car  was  alive 
with  lobsters.  As  he  moved  the  net  through  the 
water  there  was  always  one  just  before  it  or  be 
hind  it;  but  at  least  ten  minutes  elapsed  before  he 
managed  to  get  one  in  it.  At  length,  when  his 
arms  were  weary  and  his  patience  almost  exhausted, 
the  submerged  net  became  heavy,  and  the  handle 
shook  in  his  grasp.  He  shortened  his  hold  and 
began  to  pull  in  hand  over  hand.  He  had  a  lob 
ster,  a  big  lobster. 

He  could  see  a  pair  of  claws  opening  and  shut 
ting  wickedly.  He  raised  the  creature  through  the 
opening,  balanced  the  net  on  its  edge,  rose  on  one 
knee,  tried  to  stand  erect,  stumbled,  lost  his  hold 
on  the  handle  and  shot  the  lobster  neatly  out  of 
the  meshes,  over  the  edge  of  the  car,  and  into  the 
free  waters  of  the  channel.  Then  he  expressed  his 
feelings  aloud  and  with  emphasis. 

Five  minutes  later  he  got  another,  but  it  was  too 
small  to  be  of  use.  In  twenty  minutes  he  netted 
three  more,  two  of  which  got  away.  The  third, 
however,  he  dragged  pantingly  to  the  wharf  and 

62 


THE    COMING   OF   JOB 

sat  beside  it,  gloating.  It  was  his  for  keeps,  and  it 
was  a  big  one,  the  great-grandaddy  of  lobsters. 
Its  claws  clashed  and  snapped  at  the  twine  of  the 
net  like  a  pair  of  giant  nut  crackers. 

Carrying  it  as  far  from  his  body  as  its  weight  at 
the  end  of  the  handle  would  permit,  he  bore  it  in 
triumph  to  the  kitchen.  To  boil  a  lobster  alive 
had  seemed  a  mean  trick,  and  cruel,  when  Seth  At 
kins  first  ordered  him  to  do  it.  Now  he  didn't 
mind;  it  would  serve  the  thing  right  for  being  so 
hard  to  catch.  Entering  the  kitchen,  he  balanced 
the  net  across  a  chair  and  stepped  to  the  range  to 
see  if  the  water  was  boiling.  It  was  not,  and  for  a 
very  good  reason — the  fire  had  gone  out.  Again 
Mr.  Brown  expressed  his  feelings. 

The  fire,  newly  kindled,  had  burned  to  the  last 
ash.  If  he  had  been  there  to  add  more  coal  in 
season,  it  would  have  survived;  but  he  had  been 
otherwise  engaged.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done 
except  rake  out  the  ashes  and  begin  anew.  This  he 
did.  When  he  removed  the  kettle  he  decided  at 
once  that  it  was  much  too  small  for  the  purpose  re 
quired  of  it.  To  boil  a  lobster  of  that  size  in  a 
kettle  of  that  size  would  necessitate  boiling  one 
end  at  a  time,  and  that,  both  for  the  victim  and 
himself,  would  be  troublesome  and  agonizing.  He 

63 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

hunted  about  for  a  larger  kettle  and,  finding  none, 
seized  in  desperation  upon  the  wash  boiler,  filled  it, 
and  lifted  it  to  the  top  of  the  stove  above  the  flick 
ering  new  fire. 

The  fire  burned  slowly,  and  he  sat  down  to  rest 
and  wait.  As  he  sank  into  the  chair — not  that 
across  which  the  netted  lobster  was  balanced,  but 
another — he  became  aware  of  curious  sounds  from 
without.  Distant  sounds  they  were,  far  off  and 
faint,  but  growing  steadily  louder;  wails  and  long- 
drawn  howls,  mournful  and  despairing. 

"  A-a-oo-ow !    Aa-ow-ooo !  " 

"What  in  the  world?"  muttered  Brown,  and 
ran  out  of  the  kitchen  and  around  the  corner  of  the 
house. 

There  was  nothing  in  sight,  nothing  strange  or 
unusual,  that  is.  Joshua,  Seth's  old  horse,  pick- 
etted  to  a  post  in  the  back  yard  and  grazing,  or  try 
ing  to  graze,  on  the  stubby  beach  grass,  was  the 
only  living  exhibit.  But  the  sounds  continued  and 
grew  louder. 

"  Aa-ow-ooo !     Ow-oo-ow-ooo !  " 

Over  the  rise  of  a  dune,  a  hundred  yards  off, 
where  the  road  to  Eastboro  village  dipped  towards 
a  swampy  hollow,  appeared  a  horse's  head  and  the 
top  of  a  covered  wagon.  A  moment  later  the 

64 


THE    COMING   OF   JOB 

driver  became  visible,  a  freckled  faced  boy  grin 
ning  like  a  pumpkin  lantern.  The  horse  trotted 
through  the  sand  up  to  the  lights.  Joshua  whin 
nied  as  if  he  enjoyed  the  prospect  of  company. 
From  the  back  of  the  wagon,  somewhere  beneath 
the  shade  of  the  cover,  arose  a  heartrending  wail, 
reeking  of  sorrow  and  agony. 

"  Aa-ow-ooo/    Ooo-aa-ow/  " 

"  For  heaven's  sake,"  exclaimed  the  lightkeeper's 
helper,  running  to  meet  the  vehicle,  "  what  is  the 
matter?  " 

The  boy  grinned  more  expansively  than  ever. 
'  Whoa !  "  he  shouted,  to  the  horse  he  was  driv 
ing.  The  animal  stopped  in  his  tracks,  evidently 
glad  of  the  opportunity.  Another  howl  burst  from 
the  covered  depths  of  the  wagon. 

"  I've  got  him,"  said  the  boy,  with  a  triumphant 
nod  and  a  jerk  of  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder. 
"  He's  in  there." 

"He?    Who?    What?" 

"Job.  He's  in  there.  Hear  him?  He's  been 
goin'  on  like  that  ever  since  he  finished  his  bone, 
and  that  was  over  two  mile  back.  Say,"  admir 
ingly,  "  he's  some  singer,  ain't  he !  Hear  that, 
will  ye?" 

Another  wail  arose   from  the  wagon.     Brown 

65 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

hastened  to  the  rear  of  the  vehicle,  on  the  canvas 
side  of  which  were  painted  the  words  "  Henry  G. 
Goodspeed,  Groceries,  Dry  and  Fancy  Goods  and 
Notions,  Eastboro,"  and  peered  in  over  the  tail 
board.  The  interior  of  the  wagon  was  well  nigh 
filled  by  a  big  box  with  strips  of  board  nailed  across 
its  top.  From  between  these  strips  a  tawny  nose 
was  uplifted.  As  the  helper  stared  wonderingly  at 
the  box  and  the  nose,  the  boy  sprang  from  his  seat 
and  joined  him. 

"  That's  him,"  declared  the  boy.  "  Hi,  there, 
Job,  tune  up  now!  What's  the  matter  with  ye?  " 

His  answer  was  an  unearthly  howl  from  the  box, 
accompanied  by  a  mighty  scratching.  The  boy 
laughed  delightedly. 

"  Ain't  he  a  wonder?  "  he  demanded.  "  Ought 
to  be  in  church  choir,  hadn't  he." 

Brown  stepped  on  the  hub  of  a  rear  wheel,  and, 
clinging  to  the  post  of  the  wagon  cover,  looked 
down  into  the  box.  The  creature  inside  was  about 
the  size  of  a  month  old  calf. 

14  It's  a — it's  a  dog,"  he  exclaimed.  "  A  dog, 
isn't  it?" 

"  Sure,  it's  a  dog.  Or  he'll  be  a  dog  when  he 
grows  up.  Nothin'  but  a  pup  now,  he  ain't. 
Where's  Seth?" 

66 


THE    COMING    OF   JOB 

"  Seth?    Oh,  Mr.  Atkins;  he's  not  here." 

11  Ain't  he  ?     Where's  he  gone  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"Don't  ye?  When's  he  comin'  back?  Hush 
up!  "  This  last  was  a  command  to  the  prisoner 
in  the  box,  who  paid  absolutely  no  attention  to  it. 

"  I  don't  know  when  he'll  be  back.  Do  you 
want  to  see  him  personally  ?  Won't  I  do  ?  I'm  in 
charge  here  till  he  returns." 

"  Be  ye?  Oh,  you're  the  new  assistant  from  Bos 
ton.  You'll  do.  All  I  want  to  do  is  unload  him — 
Job,  I  mean — and  leave  a  couple  bundles  of  fly 
paper  Seth  ordered.  Here!"  lowering  the  tail 
board  and  climbing  into  the  wagon,  "  you  catch  a- 
holt  of  t'other  end  of  the  box,  and  I'll  shove  on  this 
one.  Hush  up,  Job !  Nobody's  goin'  to  eat  ye — 
'less  it's  the  moskeeters.  Now,  then,  mister,  here 
he  comes." 

He  began  pushing  the  box  toward  the  open  end 
of  the  wagon.  The  dog's  whines  and  screams 
and  scratchings  furnished  an  accompaniment  al 
most  deafening. 

"Wait!  Stop!  For  heaven's  sake,  wait!" 
shouted  Brown.  "  What  are  you  putting  that  brute 
off  here  for?  I  don't  want  him." 

"  Yes,  you  do.  Seth  does,  anyhow.  Henry  G. 
67 


THE   WOMAN-HATERS 

made  him  a  present  of  Job  last  time  Seth  was  over 
to  the  store.  Didn't  he  tell  ye  ?  " 

Then  the  substitute  assistant  remembered.  This 
was  the  "  half-grown  pup  "  Atkins  had  said  was  to 
be  brought  over  by  the  grocery  boy.  This  was  the 
creature  they  were  to  accept  "  on  trial." 

"  Well,  by  George !  "  he  exclaimed  in  disgust. 

"  Didn't  Seth  tell  ye?  "  asked  the  boy  again. 

"  Yes.    .    .    .    Yes,  I  believe  he  did.  But " 

"  Then  stand  by  while  I  unload  him.  Here  he 
comes  now.  H'ist  him  down  easy  as  you  can." 

That  was  not  too  easy,  for  the  end  of  the  box 
slid  from  the  tail-board  to  the  ground  with  a 
thump  that  shook  the  breath  from  the  prisoner 
within.  But  the  breath  came  back  again  and  fur 
nished  motive  power  for  more  and  worse  howls 
and  whines.  Joshua  pricked  up  his  ears  and 
trotted  to  the  further  end  of  his  halter. 

u  There !  "  said  Henry  G.'s  boy,  jumping  to  the 
ground  beside  the  box,  "  that's  off  my  hands,  thank 
the  mercy!  Here's  your  fly  paper.  Five  dozen 
sheets.  You  must  have  pretty  nigh  as  many  flies 
down  here  as  you  have  moskeeters.  Well,  so  long. 
I  got  to  be  goin'." 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  pleaded  Brown.  "  What 
shall  I  do  with  this — er — blessed  dog?  Is  he  sav- 

68 


THE    COMING    OF   JOB 

age?    Why  did  you  bring  him  in  a  crate — like  a 
piano?  " 

"  'Cause  'twas  the  easiest  way.  You  couldn't  tie 
him  up,  not  in  a  cart  no  bigger'n  this.  Might's 
well  tie  up  an  elephant.  Besides,  he  won't  stay 
tied  up  nowheres.  Busted  more  clotheslines  than 
I've  got  fingers  and  toes,  that  pup  has.  He  needs 
a  chain  cable  to  keep  him  to  his  moorin's.  Don't 
ye,  Job,  you  old  earthquake?  Hey?  " 

He  pounded  on  the  box,  and  the  earthquake 
obliged  with  a  renewed  series  of  shocks  and  shak 
ings. 

The  lightkeeper's  assistant  smiled  in  spite  of 
himself. 

'*  Who  named  him  Job?  "  he  asked. 

"  Henry  G.'s  cousin  from  Boston.  He  said  he 
seemed  to  be  always  sufferin'  and  fillin'  the  land 
with  roarin's,  like  Job  in  the  Bible.  So,  bein'  as 
he  hadn't  no  name  except  cuss  words,  that  one  stuck. 
I  cal'late  Henry  G.'s  glad  enough  to  get  rid  of  him. 
Ho!  ho!" 

"  Did  Mr.  Atkins  see  his — this — did  he  see  his 
present  before  he  accepted  it?  " 

"No.  That's  the  best  part  of  the  joke.  Well," 
clambering  to  his  seat  and  picking  up  the  reins, 
"  I've  got  five  mile  of  sand  and  moskeeters  to 

6  69 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

navigate,  so  I've  got  to  be  joggin'.  Oh,  say!  goin' 
to  leave  him  in  the  box  there,  be  ye?  " 

"  I  guess  so,  for  the  present." 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't  leave  him  too  long.  He's 
stronger'n  Samson  and  the  Philippines  rolled  to 
gether,  and  he's  humped  up  his  back  so  much  on 
the  way  acrost  that  he's  started  most  of  the  nails 
in  them  slats  over  top  of  him.  I  tell  ye  what  you 
do:  Give  him  a  bone  or  a  chunk  of  tough  meat  to 
chaw  on.  Then  he'll  rest  easy  for  a  spell.  Good 
bye.  I  wish  I  could  stay  and  see  Seth  when  he 
looks  at  his  present,  but  I  can't.  Gid-dap,  Jan 
uary." 

The  grocery  wagon  rolled  out  of  the  yard.  The 
forsaken  Job  sent  a  roar  of  regret  after  him.  Also, 
he  "  humped  us  his  back,"  and  the  nails  holding 
the  slats  in  place  started  and  gave  alarmingly. 
John  Brown  hastened  to  the  house  in  quest  of  a 
bone. 


CHAPTER    V 

THE  GOING  OF  JOSHUA 

HE  found  one,  after  a  time,  the  relic  of  a 
ham,  with  a  good  deal  of  meat  on  it. 
Atkins,  economical  soul,  would  have 
protested  in  horror  against  the  sinful  waste,  but 
his  helper  would  cheerfully  have  sacrificed  a  whole 
hog  to  quiet  the  wails  from  the  box  in  the  yard. 
He  pushed  the  ham  bone  between  the  slats,  and  Job 
received  it  greedily.  The  howls  and  whines  ceased 
and  were  succeeded  by  gnawings  and  crunchings. 
Brown  returned  to  the  kitchen  to  inspect  his  neg 
lected  fire. 

This  time  the  fire  was  not  out,  but  it  burned 
slowly.  The  water  in  the  wash  boiler  was  only 
lukewarm.  The  big  lobster  in  the  net  balanced  on 
the  chair  clashed  his  claws  wickedly  as  the  substi 
tute  assistant  approached.  The  door  had  been  left 
open,  and  the  room  hummed  with  flies.  Brown 
shut  the  door  and,  while  waiting  for  the  water  to 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

heat,  separated  a  dozen  sheets  of  the  sticky  fly 
paper  and  placed  them  in  conspicuous  places.  He 
wondered  as  he  did  so  what  some  of  his  former  ac 
quaintances  would  say  if  they  could  see  him.  He 
— he — a  cook,  and  a  roustabout,  a  dishwasher  and 
a  scrubber  of  brass  at  Eastboro  Twin-Lights! 
How  long  must  he  stay  there?  For  months  at 
least.  He  should  be  thankful  that  he  was  there; 
thankful  that  there  was  such  a  place,  where  no  one 
came  and  where  he  could  remain  until  he  was  for 
gotten.  He  was  thankful,  of  course  he  was.  But 
what  a  life  to  live! 

He  wondered  what  Atkins  thought  of  him; 
how  much  the  lightkeeper  guessed  concerning  his 
identity  and  his  story.  He  could  not  guess  within 
miles  of  the  truth,  but  he  must  indulge  in  some 
curious  speculations.  Then  he  fell  to  wondering 
about  Seth  himself.  What  was  it  that  the  light- 
keeper  was  hiding  from  the  world  ?  Odd  that  two 
people,  each  possessing  a  secret,  should  come  to 
gether  at  that  lonely  spot.  Where  was  it  that  Seth 
went  almost  every  afternoon?  Had  these  daily 
absences  any  connection  with  the  great  mystery? 

He  distributed  the  sheets  of  fly  paper  about  the 
room,  in  places  where  he  judged  them  likely  to  do 
the  most  good,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 

72 


THE    GOING    OF   JOSHUA 

a  number  of  the  tormenting  insects  caught  imme 
diately.  Then  he  tested  the  water  in  the  boiler.  It 
was  warmer,  even  hot,  but  not  boiling. 

He  had  almost  forgotten  the  dog,  but  now  was 
reminded  by  the  animal  itself,  who,  having  appar 
ently  swallowed  the  bone  whole,  began  once  more 
to  howl  lugubriously.  Brown  decided  to  let  him 
howl  for  the  present,  and,  going  into  the  living- 
room,  picked  up  an  old  magazine  and  began  list 
lessly  to  read. 

The  howls  from  the  yard  continued,  swelled  to 
a  crescendo  of  shrieks  and  then  suddenly  ceased. 
A  moment  later  there  was  a  thump  and  a  mighty 
scratching  at  the  kitchen  door.  The  substitute  as 
sistant  dropped  the  magazine  and  sprang  from  his 
chair. 

"  Good  Lord!  "  he  exclaimed;  "  I  believe " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  There  was  no 
need.  If  he  had  any  doubts  as  to  the  cause  of 
the  racket  at  the  door  they  were  dispelled  by  a 
howl  like  a  fog  whistle.  "  Job "  had  escaped 
from  durance  vile  and  was  seeking  companion 
ship. 

Brown  muttered  an  exclamation  of  impatience 
and,  opening  the  door  a  very  little  way,  peeped 
through  the  crack.  The  pup — he  looked  like  a 

73 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

scrawny  young  lion — hailed  his  appearance  with  a 
series  of  wild  yelps.  His  mouth  opened  like  a  Mam 
moth  Cave  in  miniature,  and  a  foot  of  red  tongue 
flapped  like  a  danger  signal. 

"  Get  out,  you  brute!  "  ordered  Brown. 

Job  did  not  get  out.  Instead  he  yelped  again 
and  capered  with  the  grace  of  a  cow.  His  feet 
and  legs  seemed  to  have  grown  out  of  proportion 
to  the  rest  of  him;  they  were  enormous.  Down 
the  length  of  his  yellow  back  were  three  raw  fur 
rows  which  the  nails  of  the  box  cover  had  scraped 
as  he  climbed  from  under  them. 

4 

"Nice  dog!  "  coaxed  the  lightkeeper's  helper. 
"  Nice  doggie!  Good  old  boy!  " 

The  good  old  boy  pranced  joyfully  and  made  a 
charge  at  the  door.  Brown  slammed  it  shut  just 
in  time. 

"  Clear  out!  "  he  yelled,  from  behind  it.  "  Go 
away !  Go  and  lie  down  !" 

The  answer  was  a  mighty  howl  of  disappoint 
ment  and  an  assault  on  the  door  which  threatened 
to  shatter  the  panels.  Job's  paws  were  armed  with 
claws  proportionate  to  their  size. 

This  would  never  do.  The  paint  on  that  door 
had  been  furnished  by  the  government,  and  Atkins 
was  very  careful  of  it.  Brown,  within,  pounded 

74 


THE    GOING    OF   JOSHUA 

a  protest  and  again  commanded  the  dog  to  go  and 
lie  down.  Job,  without,  thumped  and  scratched 
and  howled  louder  than  ever.  He  had  decidedly 
the  best  of  the  duet,  and  the  door  was  suffering 
every  second.  Brown  picked  up  the  fire  shovel 
and  threw  the  door  wide  open. 

11  Get  out!  "  he  roared.  "  Get  out  or  I'll  kill 
you !  " 

He  brandished  the  shovel,  expecting  an  as 
sault.  But  none  came.  It  was  evident  that  Job 
knew  a  shovel  when  he  saw  it,  had  encountered 
other  shovels  in  the  course  of  his  brief  young 
life.  His  ears  and  tail  drooped,  and  he  backed 
away. 

"Clear  out!"  repeated  Brown,  advancing 
threateningly.  With  each  step  of  the  advance,  Job 
retreated  a  corresponding  distance.  When  the  as 
sistant  stopped,  he  stopped.  Brown  lowered  the 
shovel  and  looked  at  him.  The  dog  grovelled  in 
the  sand  and  whined  dolefully. 

"  Humph!  "  grunted  the  young  man;  "  I  guess 
you're  not  as  dangerous  as  you  look.  Stay  where 
you  are  and  keep  still." 

He  turned  to  enter  the  kitchen,  turning  again 
just  in  time  to  find  the  pup  at  his  heels.  He  lifted 
the  shovel,  and  Job  jumped  frantically  out  of 

75 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

reach,  sat  down  in  a  clump  of  beach  grass,  lifted 
his  nose  to  the  sky  and  expressed  his  feelings  in  a 
howl  of  utter  misery. 

"  Good — heavens !  "  observed  John  Brown  fer 
vently,  and,  shifting  the  shovel  to  his  left  hand, 
rubbed  his  forehead  with  his  right.  Job  howled 
once  more  and  gazed  at  him  with  sorrowful  appeal. 
The  situation  was  so  ridiculous  that  the  young  man 
began  to  laugh.  This  merriment  appeared  to  en 
courage  the  pup,  who  stopped  howling  and  began 
to  caper,  throwing  the  loose  sand  from  beneath  his 
paws  in  showers. 

'  What's  the  matter,  old  boy?  "  inquired  Brown. 
"  Lonesome,  are  you  ?  " 

Job  was  making  himself  the  center  of  a  small- 
sized  sand  spout. 

"Humph!  Well  .  .  .  well,  all  right.  I'm 
not  going  to  hurt  you.  Stay  where  you  r.re,  and 
I  won't  shut  the  door." 

But  this  compromise  was  not  satisfactory,  be 
cause  the  moment  the  young  man  started  to  cross 
the  threshold  the  dog  started  to  follow.  When 
Brown  halted,  he  followed  suit — and  howled. 
Then  the  substitute  assistant  surrendered  uncondi 
tionally. 

"  All  right,"  he  said.     "  Come  in,  then,  if  you 
76 


THE    GOING    OF   JOSHUA 

want  to.  Come  in  !  but  for  goodness  sake  keep  still 
when  you  are  in." 

He  strode  into  the  kitchen,  leaving  the  door 
open.  Job  slunk  after  him,  and  crouched  with  his 
muzzle  across  the  sill,  evidently  not  yet  certain  that 
his  victory  was  complete.  He  did  not  howl,  how 
ever,  and  his  late  adversary  was  thankful  for  the 
omission. 

Brown  bethought  himself  of  the  water  in  the 
wash  boiler  and,  removing  the  cover,  tested  it  with 
his  finger.  It  was  steadily  heating,  but  not  yet  at 
the  boiling  point.  He  pushed  the  boiler  aside, 
lifted  a  lid  of  the  range  and  inspected  the  fire. 
From  behind  him  came  a  yelp,  another,  a  thump, 
and  then  a  series  of  thumps  and  yelps.  He  turned 
and  saw  Job  in  the  center  of  the  floor  apparently 
having  a  fit. 

The  moment  his  back  was  turned,  the  pup  had 
sneaked  into  the  kitchen.  It  was  not  a  large 
kitchen,  and  Job  was  distinctly  a  large  dog.  Also, 
he  was  suspicious  of  further  assaults  with  the  fire 
shovel  and  had  endeavored  to  find  a  hiding  place 
under  the  table.  In  crawling  beneath  this  article 
of  furniture  he  had  knocked  off  a  sheet  of  the  fly 
paper.  This  had  fallen  "  butter  side  down  "  upon 
his  back,  and  stuck  fast.  He  reached  aft  to  pull 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

it  loose  with  his  teeth  and  had  encountered  a  sec 
ond  sheet  laid  on  a  chair.  This  had  stuck  to  his 
neck.  Job  was  an  apprehensive  animal  by  nature 
and  as  the  result  of  experience,  and  his  nerves  were 
easily  unstrung.  He  forgot  the  shovel,  forgot  the 
human  whom  he  had  been  fearfully  trying  to  pro 
pitiate,  forgot  everything  except  the  dreadful  ob 
jects  which  clung  to  him  and  pulled  his  hair.  He 
rolled  from  beneath  the  table,  a  shrieking,  kicking, 
snapping  cyclone.  And  that  kitchen  was  no  place 
for  a  cyclone. 

He  rolled  and  whirled  for  an  instant,  then 
scrambled  to  his  feet  and  began  running  in  widen 
ing  circles.  Brown  tried  to  seize  him  as  he  passed, 
but  he  might  as  well  have  seized  a  railroad  train. 
Another  chair,  also  loaded  with  fly  paper,  upset, 
and  Job  added  a  third  sheet  to  his  collection.  This 
one  plastered  itself  across  his  nose  and  eyes.  He 
ceased  running  forward  and  began  to  leap  high  in 
the  air  and  backwards.  The  net  containing  the 
big  lobster  fell  to  the  floor.  Then  John  Brown  fled 
to  the  open  air,  leaned  against  the  side  of  the  build 
ing  and  screamed  with  laughter. 

Inside  the  kitchen  the  uproar  was  terrific. 
Howls,  shrill  yelps,  thumps  and  crashes.  Then 
came  a  crash  louder  than  any  preceding  it,  a  splash 

78 


THE    GOING    OF   JOSHUA 

of  water  across  the  sill,  and  from  the  doorway 
leaped,  or  flew,  an  object  steaming  and  dripping, 
fluttering  with  fly  paper,  and  with  a  giant  lobster 
clamped  firmly  to  its  tail.  The  lobster  was  knocked 
off  against  the  door  post,  but  the  rest  of  the  exhibit 
kept  on  around  the  corner  of  the  house,  shrieking 
as  it  flew.  Brown  collapsed  in  the  sand  and 
laughed  until  his  sides  ached  and  he  was  too  weak 
to  laugh  longer. 

At  last  he  got  up  and  staggered  after  it.  He 
was  still  laughing  when  he  reached  the  back  yard, 
but  there  he  stopped  laughing  and  uttered  an  ex 
clamation  of  impatience  and  some  alarm. 

Of  Job  there  was  no  sign,  though  from  some 
where  amid  the  dunes  sounded  yelps,  screams  and 
the  breaking  of  twigs  as  the  persecuted  one  fled 
blindly  through  the  bayberry  and  beachplum 
bushes.  But  Brown  was  not  anxious  about  the 
dog.  What  caused  him  to  shout  and  then  break 
into  a  run  was  the  sight  of  Joshua,  the  old  horse, 
galloping  at  top  speed  along  the  road  to  the  south. 
Even  his  sedate  and  ancient  calm  had  not  been 
proof  against  the  apparition  which  burst  from  the 
kitchen.  In  his  fright  he  had  broken  his  halter 
rope  and  managed — a  miracle,  considering  his 
age — to  leap  the  pasture  fence  and  run. 

79 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

That  horse  was  the  apple  of  Seth  Atkins's  eye. 
The  lightkeeper  believed  him  to  be  a  wonder  of 
strength  and  endurance,  and  never  left  the  lights 
without  cautioning  his  helper  to  keep  an  eye  on 
Joshua,  "  'cause  if  anything  happened  to  him  I'd 
have  to  hunt  a  mighty  long  spell  to  find  another 
that  could  tech  him."  Brown  accepted  this  trust 
with  composure,  feeling  morally  certain  that  the 
only  thing  likely  to  happen  to  Joshua  was  death 
from  overeating  or  old  age.  And  now  something 
had  happened — Joshua  was  running  away. 

There  was  but  one  course  to  take;  Brown  must 
leave  the  government's  property  in  its  own  care 
and  capture  that  horse.  He  had  laughed  until 
running  seemed  an  impossibility,  but  run  he  must, 
and  did,  after  a  fashion.  But  Joshua  was  running, 
too,  and  he  was  frightened.  He  galloped  like  a 
colt,  and  the  assistant  lightkeeper  gained  upon  him 
very  slowly. 

The  road  was  crooked  and  hilly,  and  the  sand  in 
its  ruts  was  deep.  Brown  would  not  have  gained 
at  all,  but  for  the  fact  that  the  horse,  from  long 
habit,  kept  to  the  roadway  and  never  tried  short 
cuts.  His  pursuer  did,  and,  therefore,  just  as 
Joshua  entered  the  grove  on  the  bluff  above  Pound- 
dug  Slough,  Brown  caught  up  with  him  and  made 

80 


THE    GOING    OF   JOSHUA 

a  grab  at  the  end  of  the  trailing  halter.  He  missed 
it,  and  the  horse  took  a  fresh  start. 

The  road  through  the  grove  was  overgrown 
with  young  trees  and  bushes,  and  amid  these  the 
animal  had  a  distinct  advantage.  Not  until  the 
outer  edge  of  the  grove  was  reached  did  the  pant 
ing  assistant  get  another  opportunity  at  the  rope. 
This  time  he  seized  it  and  held  on. 

"  Whoa  !  "  he  shouted.    "  Whoa  !  " 

But  Joshua  did  not  "  whoa  "  at  once.  He  kept 
on  along  the  edge  of  the  high,  sandy  slope.  Brown, 
from  the  tail  of  his  eye,  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
winding  channel  of  the  Slough  beneath  him,  of  a 
small  schooner  heeled  over  on  the  mud  flat  at  its 
margin,  and  of  the  figure  of  a  man  at  work  beside 
it. 

'  Whoa  !  "  he  ordered  once  more.  "  Whoa, 
Josh !  stand  still !  " 

Perhaps  the  horse  would  have  stood  still — he 
seemed  about  to  do  so — but  from  the  distance, 
somewhere  on  the  road  he  had  just  traversed,  came 
a  howl,  long-drawn  and  terrifyingly  familiar. 
Joshua  heard  it,  jumped  sidewise,  jerked  at  the 
halter  and,  as  if  playing  "  snap  the  whip,"  sent  his 
would-be  captor  heels  over  head  over  the  edge  of 
the  bank  and  rolling  down  the  sandy  slope.  The 

81 


THE    WOiMAN-HATERS 

halter  flew  from  Brown's  hands,  he  rolled  and 
bumped  and  clutched  at  clumps  of  grass  and 
bushes.  Then  he  struck  the  beach  and  stopped, 
spread-eagled  on  the  wet  sand. 

A  voice  said :  "  Well — by — time!  " 

Brown  looked  up.  Seth  Atkins,  a  paint  pail  in 
one  hand  and  a  dripping  brush  in  the  other,  was 
standing  beside  him,  blank  astonishment  written  on 
his  features. 

"Well — by  time!"  said  Seth  again,  and  with 
even  stronger  emphasis. 

The  substitute  assistant  raised  himself  to  his 
knees,  rubbed  his  back  with  one  hand,  and  then, 
turning,  sat  in  the  sand  and  returned  his  superior's 
astonished  gaze  with  one  of  equal  bewilderment. 

"  Hello  I  "  he  gasped.  "  Well,  by  George  !  it's 
you,  isn't  it!  What  are  you  doing  here?  " 

The  lightkeeper  put  down  the  pail  of  paint. 

"  What  am  I  doin'  ?  "  he  repeated.     "  What  am 

/  doin' ?  Say!  "  His  astonishment  changed  to 

suspicion  and  wrath.  "  Never  you  mind  what  I'm 
doin',"  he  went  on.  "  That's  my  affairs.  What 
are  you  doin'  here  ?  That's  what  I  want  to  know." 

Brown  rubbed  the  sand  out  of  his  hair. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly  what  I  am  doing — yet," 
he  panted. 

82 


THE    GOING    OF   JOSHUA 

"  You  don't,  hey?  Well,  you'd  better  find  out. 
Maybe  I  can  help  you  to  remember.  Sneakin' 
after  me,  wa'n't  you?  Spyin',  to  find  out  what  I 
was  up  to,  hey?  " 

He  shook  the  wet  paint  brush  angrily  at  his 
helper.  Brown  looked  at  him  for  an  instant;  then 
he  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Spyin'  on  me,  was  you?"  repeated  Seth. 
"  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  mindin'  your  own  business 
was  part  of  our  dicker  if  you  was  goin'  to  stay  at 
Eastboro  lighthouse?  Didn't  I  tell  you  that?  " 

The  young  man  answered  with  a  contemptuous 
shrug.  Turning  on  his  heel,  he  started  to  walk 
away.  Atkins  sprang  after  him. 

"  Answer  me,"  he  ordered.  "  Didn't  I  say 
you'd  got  to  mind  your  own  business?  " 

"  You  did,"  coldly. 

"  You  bet  I  did !    And  was  you  mindin'  it?  " 

"  No.  I  was  minding  yours — like  a  fool.  Now 
you  may  mind  it  yourself." 

"  Hold  on  there !    Where  you  goin'  ?  " 

"  Back  to  the  lights.  And  you  may  go  to  the 
devil,  or  anywhere  else  that  suits  your  convenience, 
and  take  your  confounded  menagerie  with  you." 

"  My  menag—  What  on  earth?  Say,  hold 
on!  Mercy  on  us,  what's  that?" 

83 


THE   WOMAN-HATERS 

From  the  top  of  the  bluff  came  a  crashing  and 
a  series  of  yelps.  Through  the  thicket  of  beach- 
plum  bushes  was  thrust  a  yellow  head,  fringed  with 
torn  fragments  of  fly  paper. 

u  What's  that?  "  demanded  the  astonished  light- 
keeper. 

Brown  looked  at  the  whining  apparition  in  the 
bushes  and  smiled  maliciously. 

"  That,"  he  observed,  "  is  Job." 

"Job?" 

"  Yes."  From  somewhere  in  the  grove  came  a 
thrashing  of  branches  and  a  frightened  neigh. 
"  And  that,"  he  continued,  "  is  Joshua,  I  presume. 
If  there  are  more  Old  Testament  patriarchs  in  the 
vicinity,  I  don't  know  where  they  are,  and  I  don't 
care.  You  may  hunt  for  them  yourself.  I'm  go 
ing  to  follow  your  advice  and  mind  my  own  busi 
ness.  Good  by." 

He  strode  off  up  the  beach.  Job,  at  the  top  of 
the  bank,  started  to  follow,  but  a  well-aimed  peb 
ble  caused  him  to  dodge  back. 

"  Hold  on !  "  roared  the  lightkeeper.  "  Maybe 
I  made  a  mistake.  Perhaps  you  wa'n't  spyin'  on 
me.  Don't  go  off  mad.  I  ...  Wait!" 

But  John  Brown  did  not  wait.  He  strode  rap 
idly  away  up  the  beach.  Seth  stared  after  him. 

84 


THE    GOING    OF   JOSHUA 

From  the  grove,  where  his  halter  had  caught  firmly 
in  the  fork  of  a  young  pine,  Joshua  thrashed  and 
neighed. 

"  Aa-oo-ow !  "  howled  Job,  from  the  bushes. 

An  hour  later  Atkins,  leading  the  weary  and 
homesick  Joshua  by  the  bridle,  trudged  in  at  the 
lighthouse  yard.  Job,  still  ornamented  with  rem 
nants  of  the  fly  paper,  slunk  at  his  heels.  Seth 
stabled  the  horse  and,  after  some  manoeuvering, 
managed  to  decoy  the  dog  down  the  slope  to  the 
boathouse,  where  he  closed  the  door  upon  him  and 
his  whines.  Then  he  climbed  back  to  the  kitchen. 

The  table  was  set  for  one,  and  in  the  wash  boiler 
on  the  range  the  giant  lobster  was  cooking.  Of 
the  substitute  assistant  keeper  there  was  no  sign, 
but,  after  searching,  Seth  found  him  in  his  room. 

"Well?"  observed  Atkins,  gruffly,  "we  might 
's  well  have  supper,  hadn't  we?  " 

Brown  did  not  seem  interested.  '  Your  supper 
is  ready,  I  think,"  he  answered.  "  I  tried  not  to 
forget  anything." 

;'  I  guess  'tis;  seems  to  be.  Come  on,  and  we'll 
eat." 

;'  I  have  eaten,  thank  you." 

"You  have?    Alone?" 
7  85 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  Yes.  That,  too,"  with  emphasis,  "  is  a  part 
of  my  business." 

The  lightkeeper  stared,  grunted,  and  then  went 
out  of  the  room.  He  ate  a  lonely  meal,  not  of  the 
lobster — he  kept  that  for  another  occasion — but 
one  made  up  of  cold  scraps  from  the  pantry.  He 
wandered  uneasily  about  the  premises,  quieted 
Job's  wails  for  the  time  by  a  gift  of  eatable  odds 
and  ends  tossed  into  the  boathouse,  smoked,  tried 
to  read,  and,  when  it  grew  dusk,  lit  the  lamps  in 
the  towers.  At  last  he  walked  to  the  closed  door 
of  his  helper's  room  and  rapped. 

"Well?"  was  the  ungracious  response. 

[<  It's  me,  Atkins,"  he  announced,  hesitatingly. 
"  I'd  like  to  speak  to  you,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"On  business?" 

"  Well,  no — not  exactly.  Say,  Brown,  I  guess 
likely  I'd  ought  to  beg  your  pardon  again.  I  cal'- 
late  I've  made  another  mistake.  I  jedge  you  wa'n't 
spyin'  on  me  when  you  dove  down  that  bankin'." 

'  Your  judgment  is  good  this  time.    I  was  not." 

"  No,  I'm  sartin  you  wa'n't.  I  apologize  and 
take  it  all  back.  Now  can  I  come  in?  " 

The  door  was  thrown  open.  Seth  entered,  look 
ing  sheepish,  and  sat  down  in  the  little  cane-seated 
rocker. 

86 


THE    GOING    OF   JOSHUA 

u  Say,"  he  began,  after  a  moment  of  uncomfort 
able  silence,  u  would  you  mind — now  that  I've 
begged  your  pardon  and  all — tellin'  me  what  did 
happen  while  I  was  away.  I  imagine,  judgin'  by 
the  looks  of  things  in  the  kitchen,  that  there  was 
— er — well,  consider'ble  doin',  as  the  boys  say." 

He  grinned.  Brown  tried  to  be  serious,  but  was 
obliged  to  smile  in  return. 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  he  said.  "  Of  course  you  know 
where  that — er — remarkable  dog  came  from?  " 

"  I  can  guess,"  drily.  "  Henry  G.'s  present, 
ain't  he?  Humph!  Well,  I'd  ought  to  have 
known  that  anything  Henry  would  give  away  was 
likely  to  be  remarkable  in  all  sorts  of  ways.  All 
right !  that's  one  Henry's  got  on  me.  Tomorrow 
afternoon  me  and  Job  take  a  trip  back  to  Eastboro, 
and  one  of  us  stays  there.  It  may  be  me,  but  I 
have  my  doubts.  I  agreed  to  take  a  dog  on  trial, 
not  a  yeller-jaundiced  cow  with  a  church  organ  in 
side  of  it.  Hear  the  critter  whoopin'  down  there 
in  the  boathouse !  And  he's  eat  everything  that's 
chewable  on  the  reservation  already.  He's  a  fam 
ine  on  legs,  that  pup.  But  never  mind  him.  He's 
been  tried — and  found  guilty.  Tell  me  what  hap 
pened." 

Brown  began  the  tale  of  the  afternoon's  per- 
87 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

formances,  beginning  with  his  experience  as  a  lob 
ster  catcher.  Seth  smiled,  then  chuckled,  and 
finally  burst  into  roars  of  laughter,  in  which  the 
narrator  joined. 

'  Jiminy  crimps !  "  exclaimed  Seth,  when  the 
story  was  finished.  "  Oh,  by  jiminy  crimps!  that 
beats  the  Dutch,  and  everybody's  been  told  what 
the  Dutch  beat.  Ha,  ha  !  ho,  ho  !  Brown,  I  apol 
ogize  all  over  again.  I  don't  wonder  you  was  put 
out  when  I  accused  you  of  spyin'.  Wonder  you 
hadn't  riz  up  off  that  sand  and  butchered  me  where 
I  stood.  Cal'late  that's  what  I'd  have  done  in 
your  place.  Well,  I  hope  there's  no  hard  feelin's 
now." 

"  No.     Your  apology  is  accepted." 

'  That's  good.  Er — er — say,  you — you  must 
have  been  sort  of  surprised  to  see  me  paintin'  the 
Daisy  Mr 

"The  which?" 

"  The  Daisy  M.  That's  the  name  of  that  old 
schooner  I  was  to  work  on." 

"  Indeed.  .  .  .  How  is  the  weather  tonight, 
clear?" 

'  Yes,  it's  fair  now,  but  looks  sort  of  thick  to 
the  east'ard.  I  say  you  must  have  been  surprised 
to  see  me  paintin'  the  Daisy  M.  I've  been  tinkerin' 


THE    GOING    OF   JOSHUA 

on  that  old  boat,  off  and  on,  ever  since  last  fall. 
Bought  her  for  eight  dollars  of  the  feller  that 
owned  her,  and  she  was  a  hulk  for  sartin  then. 
I've  caulked  her  up  and  rigged  her,  after  a  fashion. 
Now  she  might  float,  if  she  had  a  chance.  Every 
afternoon,  pretty  nigh,  I've  been  at  her.  Don't 
know  exactly  why  I  do  it,  neither.  And  yet  I  do, 
too.  Prob'ly  you've  wondered  where  I  was  takin' 
all  that  old  canvas  and  stuff.  I " 

"  Excuse  me,  Atkins.  I  mind  my  own  business, 
you  know.  I  ask  no  questions,  and  you  are  under 
no  obligation  to  tell  me  anything." 

"  I  know,  I  know."  The  lightkeeper  nodded 
solemnly.  He  clasped  his  knee  with  his  hands  and 
rocked  back  and  forth  in  his  chair.  "  I  know," 
he  went  on,  an  absent,  wistful  look  in  his  eye;  "  but 
you  must  have  wondered,  just  the  same.  I  bought 
that  craft  because — well,  because  she  reminded  me 
of  old  times,  I  cal'late.  I  used  to  command  a 
schooner  like  her  once ;  bigger  and  lots  more  able, 
of  course,  but  a  fishin'  schooner,  same  as  she  used 
to  be.  And  I  was  a  good  skipper,  if  I  do  say  it. 
My  crews  jumped  when  I  said  the  word,  now  I 
tell  you.  That's  where  I  belong — on  the  deck  of  a 
vessel.  I'm  a  man  there — a  man." 

He  paused.  Brown  made  no  comment.  Seth 
89 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

continued  to  rock  and  to  talk;  he  seemed  to  be 
thinking  aloud. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  declared,  with  a  sigh;  "when  I 
was  afloat  I  was  a  man,  and  folks  respected  me.  I 
just  do  love  salt  water  and  sailin'  craft.  That's 
why  I  bought  the  Daisy  M.  I've  been  riggin'  her 
and  caulkin'  her  just  for  the  fun  of  doin'  it.  She'll 
never  float  again.  It  would  take  a  tide  like  a  flood 
to  get  her  off  them  flats.  But  when  I'm  aboard  or 
putterin'  around  her,  I'm  happy — happier,  I  mean. 
It  makes  me  forget  I'm  a  good-for-nothin'  derelict, 
stranded  in  an  old  woman's  job  of  lightkeepin'.  Ah, 
hum-a-day,  young  feller,  you  don't  know  what  it  is 
to  have  been  somebody,  and  then,  because  you  was 
a  fool  and  did  a  fool  thing,  to  be  nothin' — nothin' ! 
You  don't  know  what  that  is." 

John  Brown  caught  his  breath.  His  fist  de 
scended  upon  the  window  ledge  beside  him. 

"  Don't  I!  "  he  groaned.  "  By  George,  don't 
I !  Do  you  suppose " 

He  stopped  short.  Atkins  started  and  came  out 
of  his  dream. 

"Why — why,  yes,"  he  said,  hastily;  "I  s'pose 
likely  you  do.  .  .  .  Well,  good  night.  I've  got 
to  go  on  watch.  See  you  in  the  mornin'." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  PICNIC 

SETH  was  true  to  his  promise  concerning  Job. 
The  next  afternoon  that  remarkable  canine 
was  decoyed,  by  the  usual  bone,  into  the  box 
in  which  he  had  arrived.  Being  in,  the  cover  was 
securely  renailed  above  him.  Brown  and  the  light- 
keeper  lifted  the  box  into  the  back  part  of  the 
"  open  wagon,"  and  Atkins  drove  triumphantly 
away,  the  pup's  agonized  protests  against  the  jour 
ney  serving  as  spurs  to  urge  Joshua  faster  along  the 
road  to  the  village.  When,  about  six  o'clock,  Seth 
reentered  the  yard,  he  was  grinning  broadly. 

'*  Well,"  inquired  Brown,  "  did  he  take  him 
back  willingly?  " 

;' Who?  Henry  G.?  I  don't  know  about  the 
willin'  part,  but  he'll  take  him  back.  I  attended  to 
that." 

'  What  did  he  say?  Did  he  think  you  ungrate 
ful  for  refusing  to  accept  his  present?  " 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

Atkins  laughed  aloud.  "  He  didn't  say  noth- 
in',"  he  declared.  "  He  didn't  know  it  when  I 
left  Eastboro.  I  wa'n't  such  a  fool  as  to  cart  that 
critter  to  the  store,  where  all  the  gang  'round  the 
store  could  holler  and  make  fun.  Not  much !  I 
drove  way  round  the  other  way,  up  the  back  road, 
and  unloaded  him  at  Henry's  house.  I  cal'lated  to 
leave  him  with  Aunt  Olive — that's  Henry's  sister, 
keepin'  house  for  him — but  she'd  gone  out  to 
sewin'  circle,  and  there  wa'n't  nobody  to  home. 
The  side  door  was  unlocked,  so  I  lugged  that  box 
into  the  settin'  room  and  left  it  there.  Pretty  nigh 
broke  my  back;  and  that  everlastin'  Job  hollered 
so  I  thought  the  whole  town  would  hear  him  and 
come  runnin'  to  stop  the  murderin'  that  they'd  car- 
late  was  bein'  done.  But  there  ain't  no  nigh  neigh 
bors,  and  those  that  are  nighest  ain't  on  speakin' 
terms  with  Henry;  ruther  have  him  murdered  than 
not,  I  shouldn't  wonder.  So  I  left  Job  in  his  box 
in  the  settin'  room  and  cleared  out." 

The  substitute  assistant  smiled  delightedly. 

"Good  enough!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  a 
pleasant  surprise  for  friend  Henry  or  his  house 
keeper." 

"Ho,  ho!  ain't  it!  I  rather  guess  'twill  be 
Henry  himself  that's  surprised  fust.  Aunt  Olive 

92 


THE    PICNIC 

never  leaves  sewin'  circle  till  the  last  bit  of  supper's 
eat  up — she's  got  some  of  her  brother's  stinginess 
in  her  make-up — so  I  cal'late  Henry'll  get  home 
afore  she  does.  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  with  an  ex 
uberant  chuckle,  "  if  that  settin'  room  was  some 
stirred  up  when  he  sees  it.  The  pup  had  loosened 
the  box  cover  afore  I  left.  Ho,  ho !  " 

"  But  won't  he  send  the  dog  back  here  again?  " 

"  No,  he  won't.  I  left  a  note  for  him  on  the 
table.  There  was  consider'ble  ginger  in  every  line 
of  it.  No,  Job  won't  be  sent  here,  no  matter  what 
becomes  of  him.  And  if  anything  should  be  broke 
in  that  settin'  room — well,  there  was  some  damage 
done  to  our  kitchen.  No,  I  guess  Henry  G.  and 
me  are  square.  He  won't  make  any  fuss ;  he  wants 
to  keep  our  trade,  you  see." 

It  was  a  true  prophecy.  The  storekeeper  made 
no  trouble,  and  Job  remained  at  Eastboro  until  a 
foray  on  a  neighbor's  chickens  resulted  in  his  re 
moval  from  this  vale  of  tears.  Neither  the  light- 
keeper  nor  his  helper  ever  saw  him  again,  and 
when  Seth  next  visited  the  store  and  solicitously 
inquired  concerning  the  pup's  health,  Henry  G. 
merely  looked  foolish  and  changed  the  subject. 

But  the  dog's  short  sojourn  at  the  Twin-Lights 
had  served  to  solve  one  mystery,  that  of  Atkins's 

93 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

daily  excursions  to  Pounddug  Slough.  He  went 
there  to  work  on  the  old  schooner,  the  Daisy  M. 
Seth  made  no  more  disclosures  concerning  his  past 
life — that  remained  a  secret — but  he  did  suggest 
his  helper's  going  to  inspect  the  schooner.  "  Just 
walk  across  and  look  her  over,"  he  said.  "  I'd 
like  to  know  what  you  think  of  her.  See  if  I  ain't 
makin'  a  pretty  good  job  out  of  nothin'.  For 
nothin',  of  course,"  he  added,  gloomily;  "but  it 
keeps  me  from  thinkin'  too  much.  Go  and  see 
her,  that's  a  good  feller." 

So  the  young  man  did  go.  He  climbed  aboard 
the  stranded  craft — a  forlorn  picture  she  made, 
lying  on  her  side  in  the  mud — and  was  surprised 
to  find  how  much  had  been  manufactured  "  out  of 
nothing."  Her  seams,  those  which  the  sun  had 
opened,  were  caulked  neatly;  her  deck  was  clean 
and  white;  she  was  partially  rigged,  with  new  and 
old  canvas  and  ropes;  and  to  his  landsman's  eyes 
she  looked  almost  fit  for  sea.  But  when  he  said 
as  much  to  Seth,  the  latter  laughed  scornfully. 

"  Fit  for  nothin',"  scoffed  the  lightkeeper.  "  I 
could  make  her  fit,  maybe,  if  I  wanted  to  spend 
money  enough,  but  I  don't.  I  can't  get  at  her  star 
board  side,  that's  down  in  the  mud,  and  I  cal'late 
she'd  leak  like  a  skimmer.  She's  only  got  a  fores'l 

94 


THE    PICNIC 

and  a  jib,  and  the  jib's  only  a  little  one  that  used 
to  belong  to  a  thirty-foot  sloop.  Her  anchor's 
gone,  and  I  wouldn't  trust  her  main  topmast  to 
carry  anything  bigger'n  a  handkerchief,  nor  that 
in  a  breeze  no  more  powerful  than  a  canary  bird's 
breath.  And,  as  I  told  you,  it  would  take  a  tide 
like  a  flood  to  float  her.  No,  she's  no  good,  and 
never  will  be;  but,"  with  a  sigh,  "  I  get  a  little  fun 
fussin'  over  her." 

"  Er — by  the  way,"  he  added,  a  little  later,  "  of 
course  you  won't  mention  to  nobody  what  I  told 
you  about — about  my  bein'  a  fishin'  skipper  once. 
Not  that  anybody  ever  comes  here  for  you  to  men 
tion  it  to,  but  I  wouldn't  want  .  .  .  You  see, 
nobody  in  Eastboro  or  anywheres  on  the  Cape 
knows  where  I  come  from,  and  so  ...  Oh,  all 
right,  all  right.  I  know  you  ain't  the  kind  to  talk. 
Mind  our  own  business,  that's  the  motto  you  and 
me  cruise  under,  hey?  " 

Yet,  although  the  conversation  in  the  substitute 
assistant's  room  was  not  again  referred  to  by  either, 
it  had  the  effect  of  making  the  oddly  assorted  pair 
a  bit  closer  in  their  companionship.  The  mutual 
trust  was  strengthened  by  the  lightkeeper's  half 
confidence  and  Brown's  sympathetic  reception  of  it. 
Each  was  lonely,  each  had  moments  when  he  felt 

95 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

he  must  express  his  hidden  feelings  to  some  one, 
and,  though  neither  recognized  the  fact,  it  was  cer 
tain  that  the  time  was  coming  when  all  mysteries 
would  be  mysteries  no  longer.  And  one  day  oc 
curred  a  series  of  ridiculous  happenings  which,  bid 
ding  fair  at  first  to  end  in  a  quarrel  the  relation 
ship  between  the  two,  instead  revealed  in  both  a 
kindred  trait  that  removed  the  last  barrier. 

At  a  little  before  ten  on  this  particular  morning, 
Brown,  busy  in  the  kitchen,  heard  vigorous  lan 
guage  outside.  It  was  Atkins  who  was  speaking, 
and  the  assistant  wondered  who  on  earth  he  could 
be  talking  to.  A  glance  around  the  doorpost 
showed  that  he  was,  apparently,  talking  to  himself 
— at  least,  there  was  no  other  human  being  to  be 
seen.  He  held  in  his  hand  a  battered  pair  of  ma 
rine  glasses  and  occasionally  he  peered  through 
them.  Each  time  he  did  so  his  soliloquy  became 
more  animated  and  profane. 

"What's  the  matter?"  demanded  Brown, 
emerging  from  the  house. 

"  Matter?  "  repeated  Seth.  "  Matter  enough! 
Here !  take  a  squint  through  them  glasses  and  tell 
me  who's  in  that  buggy  comin'  yonder?  " 

The  buggy,  a  black  dot  far  down  the  sandy  road 
leading  from  the  village,  was  rocking  and  dipping 

96 


over  the  dunes.     The  assistant  took  the  glasses, 
adjusted  them,  and  looked  as  directed. 

'  Why!  "  he  said  slowly,  "  there  are  three  peo 
ple  in  that  buggy.    A  man — and " 

"  And  two  women;  that's  what  I  thought.  Dum 
idiots  comin'  over  to  picnic  and  spend  the  day, 
sure's  taxes.  And  they'll  want  to  be  showed  round 
the  lights  and  everywheres,  and  they'll  ask  more'n 
forty  million  questions.  Consarn  the  luck!  " 

Brown  looked  troubled.  He  had  no  desire  to 
meet  strangers. 

"  How  do  you  know  they're  coming  here?  "  he 
asked.  The  answer  was  conclusive. 

"  Because,"  snarled  Seth,  "  as  I  should  think 
you'd  know  by  this  time,  there  ain't  no  other  place 
round  here  they  could  come  to." 

A  moment  later,  he  added,  "  Well,  you'll  have 
to  show  'em  round." 

"/will?" 

"  Sartin.  That's  part  of  the  assistant  keeper's 
job." 

He  chuckled  as  he  said  it.  That  chuckle  grated 
on  the  young  man's  nerves. 

;<  I'm  not  the  assistant,"  he  declared  cheerfully. 

"  You  ain't?    What  are  you  then?  " 

"  Oh,  just  a  helper.      I  don't  get  any  wages. 

97 


THE   WOMAN-HATERS 

You've  told  me  yourself,  over  and  over,  that  I 
have  no  regular  standing  here.  And,  according  to 
the  government  rules,  those  you've  got  posted  in 
the  kitchen,  the  lightkeeper  is  obliged  to  show  vis 
itors  about.  I  wouldn't  break  the  rules  for  the 
world.  Good  morning.  Think  I'll  go  down  to  the 
beach." 

He  stalked  away  whistling.  Atkins,  his  face 
flaming,  roared  after  him  a  profane  opinion  con 
cerning  his  actions.  Then  he  went  into  the  kitchen, 
slamming  the  door  with  a  bang. 

Some  twenty  minutes  later  the  helper  heard  his 
name  shouted  from  the  top  of  the  bluff. 

"  Mr.  Brown !  I  say !  Ahoy  there,  Mr. 
Brown  !  Come  up  here  a  minute,  won't  ye  ?  " 

Brown  clambered  up  the  path.  A  little  man, 
with  grey  throat  whiskers,  and  wearing  an  anti 
quated  straw  hat,  the  edge  of  the  brim  trimmed 
with  black  braid,  was  standing  waiting  for  him. 

"  Sorry  to  trouble  you,  Mr.  Brown,"  stammered 
the  little  man,  "  but  you  be  Mr.  Brown,  ain't 
you?" 

"  I  am.    Yes." 

"  Well,  I  cal'lated  you  was.  My  name's  Stover, 
Abijah  Stover.  I  live  over  to  Trumet.  Me  and 
my  wife  drove  over  for  a  sort  of  picnic  like. 

98 


THE    PICNIC 

We've  got  her  cousin,  Mrs.  Sophia  Hains,  along. 
Sophi's  a  widow  from  Boston,  and  she  ain't  never 
seen  a  lighthouse  afore.  I  know  Seth  Atkins 
slightly,  and  I  was  cal'latin'  he'd  show  us  around, 
but  bein'  as  he's  so  sick " 

"Sick?    Is  Mr.  Atkins  sick?" 

'  Why,  yes.  Didn't  you  know  it?  He's  in  the 
bedroom  there  groanin'  somethin'  terrible.  He 
told  me  not  to  say  nothin'  to  the  women  folks,  but 
to  hail  you,  and  you'd  look  out  for  us.  Didn't  you 
know  he  was  laid  up?  Why,  he " 

Brown  did  not  wait  to  hear  more.  He  strode 
to  the  house,  with  Mr.  Stover  at  his  heels.  On  his 
way  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  buggy,  the  horse 
dozing  between  the  shafts.  On  the  seat  of  the 
buggy  were  two  women,  one  plump  and  round- 
faced,  the  other  thin  and  gaunt. 

Mr.  Stover  panted  behind  him. 

"  Say,  Mr.  Brown,"  he  whispered,  as  they  en 
tered  the  kitchen;  "  don't  tell  my  wife  nor  Sophi 
about  Seth's  bein'  sick.  Better  not  say  a  word  to 
them  about  it." 

The  tone  in  which  this  was  spoken  made  the 
substitute  assistant  curious. 

"  Why  not?"  he  asked. 

'  'Cause — well,  'cause  Hannah's  hobby  is  sick 
99 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

folks,  as  you  might  say.  If  there's  a  cat  in  the 
neighborhood  that's  ailin'  she's  always  dosin'  of  it 
up  and  fixin'  medicine  for  it,  and  the  like  of  that. 
And  Sophi's  one  of  them  '  New  Thoughters  '  and 
don't  believe  anybody's  got  any  right  to  be  sick. 
The  two  of  'em  ain't  done  nothin'  but  argue  and 
row  over  diseases  and  imagination  and  medicines 
ever  since  Sophi  got  here.  If  they  knew  Seth  was 
laid  up,  I  honestly  believe  they'd  drop  picnic  and 
everythin'  and  start  fightin'  over  whether  he  was 
really  sick  or  just  thought  he  was.  And  I  sort 
of  figgered  on  havin'  a  quiet  day  off." 

Brown  found  the  lightkeeper  stretched  on  the 
bed  in  his  room.  He  was  dressed,  with  the  excep 
tion  of  coat  and  boots,  and  when  the  young  man 
entered  he  groaned  feebly. 

"What's  the  matter?"  demanded  the  alarmed 
helper. 

"  Oh,  my !  "  groaned  Seth.     "  Oh,  my !  " 

"  Are  you  in  pain?  What  is  it?  Shall  I  'phone 
for  the  doctor?  " 

"  No,  no.  No  use  gettin'  the  doctor.  I'll  be  all 
right  by  and  by.  It's  one  of  my  attacks.  I  have 
'em  every  once  in  a  while.  Just  let  me  alone,  and 
let  me  lay  here  without  bein'  disturbed;  then  I'll 
get  better,  I  guess." 

100 


THE    PICNIC 

"  But  it's  so  sudden!  " 

"  I  know.  They  always  come  on  that  way. 
Now  run  along,  like  a  good  feller,  and  leave  me  to 
my  suff'rin's.  '  O-oh,  dear!  " 

Much  troubled,  Brown  turned  to  the  door.  As 
he  was  going  out  he  happened  to  look  back.  The 
dresser  stood  against  the  wall  beyond  the  bed,  and 
in  its  mirror  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  face  of 
the  sick  man.  On  that  face,  which  should  have 
been  distorted  with  agony,  was  a  broad  grin. 

Brown  found  the  little  Stover  man  waiting  for 
him  in  the  kitchen. 

"  Be  you  ready?  "  he  asked. 

"  Ready?  "  repeated  Brown,  absently.  "  Ready 
for  what?" 

'  Why,  to  show  us  round  the  lights.  Sophi,  she 
ain't  never  seen  one  afore.  Atkins  said  that,  bein' 
as  he  wasn't  able  to  leave  his  bed,  you'd  show  us 
around." 

"He  did,  hey?" 

"  Yes.  He  said  you'd  be  glad  to." 

"  Hum !  "  Mr.  Brown's  tone  was  that  of  one 
upon  whom,  out  of  darkness,  a  light  has  suddenly 
burst.  "  I  see,"  he  mused,  thoughtfully.  "  Yes, 
yes.  I  see." 

For  a  minute  he  stood  still,  evidently  pondering. 
8  101 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

Then,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  he  strode  out  of 
the  house  and  walked  briskly  across  to  the  buggy. 

"  Good  morning,  ladies,"  he  said,  removing  the 
new  cap  which  Seth  had  recently  purchased  for  him 
in  Eastboro.  "  Mr.  Stover  tells  me  you  wish  to 
be  shown  the  lights." 

The  plump  woman  answered.  "  Yes,"  she  said, 
briskly,  "  we  do.  Are  you  a  new  keeper?  Where's 
Mr.  Atkins?" 

"  Mr.  Atkins,  I  regret  to  say,"  began  Brown, 
"  is  ill.  He " 

Stover,  standing  at  his  elbow,  interrupted  nerv 
ously. 

"  Mr.  Brown  here'll  show  us  around,"  he  said 
quickly.  "  Seth  said  he  would." 

"  I  shall  be  happy,"  concurred  that  young  gen 
tleman.  "  You  must  excuse  me  if  I  seem  rather 
worried.  Mr.  Atkins,  my  chief — I  believe  you 
know  him,  Mrs.  Stover — has  been  taken  suddenly 
ill,  and  is,  apparently,  suffering  much  pain.  The 
attack  was  very  sudden,  and  I " 

"Sick?"  The  plump  woman  seemed  actually 
to  prick  up  her  ears,  like  a  sleepy  cat  at  the  sound 
of  the  dinner  bell.  "  Is  Seth  sick?  And  you  all 
alone  with  him  here?  Can't  I  do  anything  to 
help?" 

IO2 


THE    PICNIC 

"  All  he  wants  is  to  be  left  alone,"  put  in  her 
husband  anxiously.  "  He  said  so  himself." 

"  Do  you  know  what's  the  matter?  Have  you 
got  any  medicine  for  him?"  Mrs.  Stover  was 
already  climbing  out  of  the  buggy. 

"  No,"  replied  Brown.  "  I  haven't.  That  is, 
I  haven't  given  him  any  yet." 

The  slim  woman,  Mrs.  Hains  of  Boston,  now 
broke  into  the  conversation. 

"Good  thing!"  she  snapped.  "Most  medi 
cine's  nothing  but  opium  and  alcohol.  Fill  the 
poor  creature  full  of  drugs  and " 

"  I  s'pose  you'd  set  and  preach  New  Thought 
at  him!  "  snapped  Mrs.  Stover.  "As  if  a  body 
could  be  cured  by  hot  air !  I  believe  I'll  go  right 
in  and  see  him.  Don't  you  s'pose  I  could  help,  Mr. 
Brown?" 

Mr.  Brown  seemed  pleased,  but  reluctant. 
"  It's  awfully  good  of  you,"  he  said.  "  I  couldn't 
think  of  troubling  you  when  you've  come  so  far 
on  a  pleasure  excursion.  But  I  am  at  my  wit's 
end." 

"  Don't  say  another  word !  "  Mrs.  Stover's 
bulky  figure  was  already  on  the  way  to  the  door 
of  the  house.  "  I'm  only  too  glad  to  do  what  I  can. 
And,  if  I  do  say  it,  that  shouldn't,  I'm  always  real 

103 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

handy  in  a  sick  room.  'Bijah,  be  quiet;  I  don't 
care  if  we  are  on  a  picnic;  no  human  bein'  shall 
suffer  while  I  set  around  and  do  nothin'." 

Mrs.  Hains  was  at  her  cousin's  heels. 

"  You'll  worry  him  to  death,"  she  declared. 
"  You'll  tell  him  how  sick  he  is,  and  that  he's  goin' 
to  die,  and  such  stuff.  What  he  needs  is  cheerful 
conversation  and  mental  uplift.  It's  too  bad! 
Well,  you  sha'n't  have  your  own  way  with  him, 
anyhow.  Mr.  Brown,  where  is  he?  " 

"  You  two  goin'  to  march  right  into  his  bed 
room? "  screamed  the  irate  Abijah.  The  women 
answered  not.  They  were  already  in  the  kitchen. 
Brown  hastened  after  them. 

"  It's  all  right,  ladies,"  he  said.  "  Right  this 
way,  please." 

He  led  the  way  to  the  chamber  of  the  sick  man. 
Mr.  Atkins  turned  on  his  bed  of  pain,  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  visitors,  and  sat  up. 

"  What  in  time?  "  he  roared. 

"  Seth,"  said  Brown,  benignly,  "  this  is  Mrs. 
Stover  of  Eastboro.  I  think  you  know  her.  And 
Mrs.  Hains  of  Boston.  These  ladies  have  heard 
of  your  sickness,  and,  having  had  experience  in  such 
cases,  have  kindly  offered  to  stay  with  you  and 
help  in  any  way  they  can.  Mrs.  Stover,  I  will 

104 


THE    PICNIC 

leave  him  in  your  hands.    Please  call  me  if  I  can  be 
of  any  assistance." 

Without  waiting  for  further  comment  from  the 
patient,  whose  face  was  a  picture,  he  hastened  to 
the  kitchen,  choking  as  he  went.  Mr.  Stover  met 
him  at  the  outer  door. 

"Now  you've  done  it!  "  wailed  the  little  man. 
"Now  you've  done  it!  Didn't  I  tell  you?  Oh, 
this'll  be  a  hell  of  a  picnic!  " 

He  stalked  away,  righteous  indignation  overcom 
ing  him.  Brown  sat  down  in  a  rocking  chair  and 
shook  with  emotion.  From  the  direction  of  the 
sick  room  came  the  sounds  of  three  voices,  each 
trying  to  outscream  the  other.  The  substitute  as 
sistant  listened  to  this  for  a  while,  and,  as  he  did  so, 
a  new  thought  struck  him.  He  remembered  a  story 
he  had  read  in  a  magazine  years  before.  He 
crossed  to  the  pantry,  found  an  empty  bottle,  rinsed 
it  at  the  sink,  stepped  again  to  the  pantry,  and,  en 
tering  it,  closed  the  door  behind  him.  There  he 
busied  himself  with  the  molasses  jug,  the  soft-soap 
bucket,  the  oil  can,  the  pepper  shaker,  and  a  few 
other  utensils  and  their  contents.  Footsteps  in  the 
kitchen  caused  him  to  hurriedly  reenter  that  apart 
ment.  Mrs.  Stover  was  standing  by  the  range,  her 
face  red. 

105 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"Oh,  there  you  are,  Mr.  Brown!"  she  ex 
claimed.  "I  wondered  where  you'd  gone  to." 

"  How  is  he?  "  inquired  Brown,  the  keenest  anx 
iety  in  his  utterance. 

"  H'm  !  he'd  do  well  enough  if  he  had  the  right 
treatment.  I  cal'late  he's  better  now,  even  as  'tis; 
but,  when  a  person  has  to  lay  and  hear  over  and 
over  again  that  what  ails  'em  is  nothin'  but  imag 
ination,  it  ain't  to  be  wondered  at  that  they  get 
mad.  What  he  needs  is  some  sort  of  soothin'  medi 
cine,  and  I  only  wish  'twan't  so  fur  over  to  home. 
I've  got  just  what  he  needs  there." 

"  I  was  thinking—  "  began  Brown. 

"  What  was  you  thinkin'  ?  " 

"  I  was  wondering  if  some  of  my  '  Stomach 
Balm  '  wouldn't  help  him.  It's  an  old  family  re 
ceipt,  handed  down  from  the  Indians,  I  believe.  I 
always  have  a  bottle  with  me  and  .  .  .  Still,  I 
wouldn't  prescribe,  not  knowing  the  disease." 

Mrs.  Stover's  eyes  sparkled.  Patent  medicines 
were  her  hobby. 

"  Hum !  "  she  said.  "  '  Stomach  Balm  '  sounds 
good.  And  he  says  his  trouble  is  principally  stom 
ach.  Some  of  them  Indian  medicines  are  mighty 
powerful.  Have  you — did  you  say  you  had  a  bot 
tle  with  you,  Mr.  Brown?  " 

106 


THE    PICNIC 

The  young  man  went  again  to  the  pantry  and 
returned  with  the  bottle  he  had  so  recently  found 
there.  Now,  however,  it  was  two  thirds  full  of  a 
black  sticky  mixture.  Mrs.  Stover  removed  the 
cork  and  took  an  investigating  sniff. 

"  It  smells  powerful,"  she  said,  hopefully. 

"  It  is.  Would  you  like  to  taste  it?"  handing 
her  a  tablespoon.  He  watched  as  she  swallowed  a 
spoonful. 

"Ugh!  oh!"  she  gasped;  even  her  long  suf 
fering  palate  rebelled  at  that  taste.  "  It — I  should 
think  that  ought  to  help  him." 

"  I  should  think  so.  It  may  be  the  very  thing 
he  needs.  At  any  rate,  it  can't  hurt  him.  It's  quite 
harmless." 

Mrs.  Stover's  face  was  still  twisted,  under  the 
influence  of  the  "  Balm " ;  but  her  mind  was 
made  up. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  try  it,"  she  declared.  "  I  don't 
care  if  every  New  Thoughter  in  creation  says  no. 
He  needs  medicine  and  needs  it  right  away." 

'  The  dose,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  gravely,  "  is  two 
tablespoonfuls  every  fifteen  minutes.  I  do  hope  it 
will  help  him.  Give  him  my  sympathy — my  deep 
est  sympathy,  Mrs.  Stover,  please." 

The  plump  lady  disappeared  in  the  direction  of 
107 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

the  sick  room.  The  substitute  assistant  lingered 
and  listened.  He  heard  a  shrill  pow-wow  of  femi 
nine  voices.  Evidently  "  New  Thought  "  and  the 
practice  of  medicine  had  once  more  clashed.  The 
argument  waxed  and  waned.  Followed  the  click 
of  a  spoon  against  glass.  And  then  came  a  gasp, 
a  gurgle,  a  choking  yell;  and  high  upon  the  salty 
air  enveloping  Eastboro  Twin-Lights  rose  the 
voice  of  Mr.  Seth  Atkins,  expressing  his  opinion  of 
the  "  Stomach  Balm  "  and  those  who  adminis 
tered  it. 

John  Brown  darted  out  of  the  kitchen,  dodged 
around  the  corner  of  the  house,  tiptoed  past  the 
bench  by  the  bluff,  where  Mr.  Stover  sat  gloomily 
meditating,  and  ran  lightly  down  the  path  to  the 
creek  and  the  wharf.  The  boathouse  at  the  end 
of  the  wharf  offered  a  convenient  refuge.  Into 
the  building  he  darted,  closed  the  door  behind  him, 
and  collapsed  upon  a  heap  of  fish  nets. 

At  three-thirty  that  afternoon,  Mr.  Atkins,  ap 
parently  quite  recovered,  was  sitting  in  the  kitchen 
rocker,  reading  a  last  week's  newspaper,  one  of 
a  number  procured  on  his  most  recent  trip  to  the 
village.  The  Stovers  and  their  guest  had  departed. 
Their  buggy  was  out  of  sight  beyond  the  dunes. 
A  slight  noise  startled  the  lightkeeper,  and  he 

1 08 


THE    PICNIC 

looked  up.  His  helper  was  standing  in  the  door 
way,  upon  his  face  an  expression  of  intense  and 
delighted  surprise. 

"  What?  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Brown.  "  What?  Is 
it  really  you?  " 

Seth  put  down  the  paper  and  nodded. 

"  Um-hm,"  he  observed  drily,  "  it's  really  me." 

"  Up  ?  and  well?  "  queried  Brown. 

"  Um-hm.  Pretty  well,  considering  thank  you. 
Been  for  a  stroll  up  Washin'ton  Street,  have  you  ? 
Or  a  little  walk  on  the  Common,  maybe?  " 

The  elaborate  sarcasm  of  these  questions  was 
intended  to  be  withering.  Mr.  Brown,  however, 
did  not  wither.  Neither  did  he  blush. 

"  I  have  been,"  he  said,  "  down  at  the  boathouse. 
I  knew  you  were  in  safe  hands  and  well  looked 
after,  so  I  went  away.  I  couldn't  remain  here  and 
hear  you  suffer." 

"Hum!  hear  me  suffer,  hey?  Much  obliged, 
I'm  sure.  What  have  you  been  doin'  there  all  this 
time?  I  hoped  you  was — that  is,  I  begun  to  be 
afraid  you  was  dead.  Thought  your  sympathy  for 
me  had  been  too  much  for  you,  maybe." 

Brown  mournfully  shook  his  head.  "  It  was— 
almost,"  he  said,  solemnly.  "  I  think  I  dropped 
asleep.  I  was  quite  overcome." 

109 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  Hum !  Better  take  a  dose  of  that  '  Stomach 
Balm,'  hadn't  you?  That'll  liven  you  up,  I'll  guar 
antee." 

"  No,  thank  you.  The  sight  of  you,  well  and 
strong  again,  is  all  the  medicine  I  need.  We  must 
keep  the  '  Balm  '  in  case  you  have  another  attack. 
By  the  way,  I  notice  the  dinner  dishes  haven't  been 
washed.  I'll  do  them  at  once.  I  know  you  must 
be  tired,  after  your  illness — and  the  exertion  of 
showing  your  guests  about  the  lights." 

Atkins  did  not  answer,  although  he  seemed  to 
want  to  very  much.  However,  he  made  no  objec 
tion  when  his  helper,  rolling  up  his  sleeves,  turned 
to  the  sink  and  the  dish  washing. 

Seth  was  silent  all  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  and 
during  supper.  But  that  evening,  as  Brown  sat 
on  the  bench  outside,  Atkins  joined  him. 

"Hello!"  said  Seth,  as  cheerfully  as  if  noth 
ing  had  happened. 

"Hello!"  replied  the  assistant,  shortly.  He 
had  been  thinking  once  more,  and  his  thoughts 
were  not  pleasant. 

"  I  s'pose  you  cal'late,"  began  Atkins,  "  that 
maybe  I've  got  a  grudge  against  you  on  account  of 
this  mornin'  and  that  '  Balm  '  and  such.  I  ain't." 

"  That's  good.    I'm  glad  to  hear  it." 
no 


THE    PICNIC 

"  Yes.  After  the  fust  dose  of  that  stuff — for 
thunder  sakes  what  did  you  put  in  it? — I  was  about 
ready  to  murder  you,  but  I've  got  over  that.  I 
don't  blame  you  for  gettin'  even.  We  are  even, 
you  know." 

"  I'm  satisfied,  if  you  are." 

"  I  be.  But  what  I  don't  understand  is  why  you 
didn't  want  to  show  them  folks  around." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  had  my  reasons,  such  as 
they  were.  Why  didn't  you  want  to  do  it  your 
self?  " 

Seth  crossed  his  legs  and  was  silent  for  a  mo 
ment  or  two.  Then  he  spoke  firmly  and  as  if  his 
mind  was  made  up. 

"  Young  feller,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  know  whether 
you  realize  it  or  not,  and  perhaps  I  shouldn't  be 
the  one  to  mention  it — but  you're  under  some  ob 
ligations  to  me." 

His  companion  nodded.  "  I  realize  that,"  he 
said. 

'  Yes,  but  maybe  you  don't  realize  the  amount 
of  the  obligations.  I'm  riskin'  my  job  keepin'  you 
here.  If  it  wa'n't  for  the  superintendent  bein'  such 
a  friend  of  mine,  there'd  have  been  a  reg'lar  as 
sistant  keeper  app'inted  long  ago.  The  gov'ment 
don't  pick  up  its  lightkeepers  same  as  you  would 

in 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

farm  hands.  There's  civil  service  to  be  gone 
through,  and  the  like  of  that.  But  you  wanted  to 
stay,  and  I've  kept  you,  riskin'  my  own  job,  as  I 
said.  And  now  I  cal'late  we'd  better  have  a  plain 
understandin'.  You've  got  to  know  just  what  your 
job  is.  I'm  goin'  to  tell  you." 

He  stopped,  as  if  to  let  this  sink  in.  Brown 
nodded  again.  "  All  right,"  he  observed,  care 
lessly;  "  go  on  and  tell  me;  I'm  listening." 

'  Your  job  around  the  lights  you  know  already, 
part  of  it.  But  there's  somethin'  else.  Whenever 
men  folks  come  here,  I'll  do  my  share  of 
showin'  the  place  off.  But  when  women  come 
— women,  you  understand — you've  got  to  be  guide. 
I'll  forgive  you  to-day's  doin's.  I  tried  to  play  a 
joke  on  you,  and  you  evened  it  up  with  a  better  one 
on  me.  That's  all  right.  But,  after  this,  showin' 
the  lights  to  females  is  your  job,  and  you've  got  to 
do  it — or  get  out.  No  hard  feelin's  at  all,  and  I'd 
really  hate  to  lose  you,  but  that's  got  to  be  as  I  say." 

He  rose,  evidently  considering  the  affair  settled. 
Brown  caught  his  coat  and  pulled  him  back  to  the 
bench. 

"  Wait,  Atkins,"  he  said.  "  I'm  grateful  to  you 
for  your  kindness,  I  like  you  and  I'd  like  to  please 
you ;  but  if  what  you  say  is  final,  then — as  they  used 

112 


THE    PICNIC 

to  say  in  some  play  or  other — '  I  guess  you'll  have 
to  hire  another  b'oy.'  ' 

"  What  ?    You  mean  you'll  quit  ?  " 

"  Rather  than  do  that — yes." 

"But  why?" 

"  For  reasons,  as  I  told  you.  By  the  way,  you 
haven't  told  me  why  you  object  to  acting  as  guide 
to — females." 

"  Because  they  are  females.  They're  women, 
darn  'em !  " 

Before  his  helper  could  comment  on  this  decla 
ration,  it  was  repeated.  The  lightkeeper  shook 
both  his  big  fists  in  the  air. 

"Darn  'em!  Darn  all  the  women!"  shouted 
Seth  Atkins. 

"  Amen,"  said  John  Brown,  devoutly. 

Seth's  fists  dropped  into  his  lap.  "  What?  "  he 
cried;  "  what  did  you  say?  " 

"  I  said  Amen." 

"  But — but  .  .  .  why  .  .  .  you  didn't 
mean  it!  " 

"  Didn't  I  ?  "  bitterly.    "  Humph !  " 

Seth  breathed  heavily,  started  to  speak  once 
more,  closed  his  lips  on  the  words,  rose,  walked 
away  a  few  paces,  returned,  and  sat  down. 

"  John  Brown,"  he  said,  solemnly,  "  if  you're 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

jokin',  the  powers  forgive  you,  for  I  won't.  If  you 
ain't,  I — I  .  .  .  See  here,  do  you  remember 
what  you  asked  me  that  night  when  you  struck  me 
for  the  assistant  keeper's  job?  You  asked  me  if 
I  was  married?  " 

Brown  assented  wonderingly.     "  Why,  yes,"  he 
said,  "  I  believe  I  did." 

'  You  did.  And  I  ain't  been  so  shook  up  for 
many  a  day.  Young  feller,  I'm  goin'  to  tell  you 
what  no  other  man  in  Ostable  County  knows.  I 
am  married.  I've  got  a  wife  livin'." 


CHAPTER  VII 

OUT  OF  THE  BAG 

I'M  married,  and  I've  got  a  wife  livin'," contin 
ued    Seth;    adding    hurriedly   and    fiercely, 
"  don't  you  say  nothin'  to  me !     Don't  you 
put  me  out.     I'm  goin'  to  tell  you !     I'm  goin'  to 
tell  you  all  of  it — all,  by  time !     I  am,  if  I  die  for 
it." 

He  was  speaking  so  rapidly  that  the  words  were 
jumbled  together.  He  knocked  his  hat  from  his 
forehead  with  a  blow  of  his  fist  and  actually  panted 
for  breath.  Brown  had  never  before  seen  him  in 
this  condition. 

"  Hold  on !  Wait,"  he  cried.  "  Atkins,  you 
needn't  do  this;  you  mustn't.  I  am  asking  no  ques 
tions.  We  agreed  to— 

"  Hush  up!  "  Seth  waved  both  hands  in  the  air. 
"  Don't  you  talk!  Let  me  get  this  off  my  chest. 
Good  heavens  alive,  I've  been  smotherin'  myself 
with  it  for  years,  and,  now  I've  got  started,  I'll 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

blow  off  steam  or  my  b'iler'll  bust.  I'm  goin'  to 
tell  you.  You  listen 

"  Yes,  sir,  I'm  a  married  man,"  he  went  on.  "  I 
wa'n't  always  married,  you  understand.  I  used  to 
be  single  once.  Once  I  was  single;  see?  " 

"  I  see,"  said  Brown,  repressing  a  smile. 

Seth  was  not  aware  that  there  was  anything  hu 
morous  in  his  statement. 

'  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  was  single  and — and  happy, 
by  jiminy !  I  was  skipper  of  a  mack'rel  schooner 
down  Cape  Ann  way,  never  mind  where,  and  Seth 
Atkins  is  only  part  of  my  name;  never  mind  that, 
neither.  I  sailed  that  schooner  and  I  run  that 
schooner — I  run  her;  and  when  I  said  'boo'  all 
hands  aboard  jumped,  I  tell  you.  When  I've  got 
salt  water  underneath  me,  I'm  a  man.  But  I  told 
you  that  afore. 

"  However,  this  is  what  I  didn't  tell  you  nor 
nobody  else  in  this  part  of  the  state :  I  stayed  sin 
gle  till  I  got  to  be  past  forty.  Everybody  set  me 
down  as  an  old  bach.  Then  I  met  a  woman;  yes, 
sir,  I  met  a  woman." 

He  made  this  assertion  as  if  it  was  something 
remarkable.  His  companion  on  the  bench  made 
no  comment. 

"  She  was  a  widow  woman,"  went  on  Seth,  "  and 
116 


OUT    OF    THE    BAG 

she  had  a  little  property  left  her  by  her  first  hus 
band.  Owned  a  house  and  land,  she  did,  and  had 
some  money  in  the  bank.  Some  folks  cal'lated  I 
married  her  for  that,  but  they  cal'lated  wrong.  I 
wanted  her  for  herself.  And  I  got  her.  Her 
name  was  Emeline.  I  always  thought  Emeline  was 
a  sort  of  pretty  name." 

He  sighed.  Brown  observed  that  Emeline  was 
a  very  pretty  name,  indeed. 

"Um-hm.  That's  what  I  thought,  and  Emeline 
was  a  real  pretty  woman,  for  her  age  and  heft — 
she  was  fleshy.  She  had  some  consider'ble  preju 
dice  against  my  goin'  to  sea,  so  I  agreed  to  stay  on 
shore  a  spell  and  farm  it,  as  you  might  say.  We 
lived  in  the  house  she  owned  and  was  real  happy 
together.  She  bossed  me  around  a  good  deal,  but 
I  didn't  mind  bein'  bossed  by  her.  'Twas  a  change, 
you  see,  for  I'd  always  been  used  to  bossin'  other 
folks.  So  I  humored  her.  And,  bein'  on  land 
made  me  lose  my — my  grip  or  somethin' ;  'cause 
I  seemed  to  forget  how  to  boss.  But  we  was 
happy,  and  then — then  Bennie  D.  come.  Consarn 
him!" 

His  teeth  shut  with  a  snap,  and  he  struck  his 
knee  with  his  fist.  "  Consarn  him !  "  he  repeated, 
and  was  silent. 

9  117 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

The  substitute  assistant  ventured  to  jog  his 
memory. 

"  Who  was  Bennie  D.  ?  "  he  asked. 

"What?  Hey?  Bennie  D.?  Oh,  he  was  her 
brother-in-law,  her  husband's  brother  from  up  Bos 
ton  way.  He  was  a  genius — at  least,  he  said  he 
was — and  an  inventor.  The  only  invention  I  ever 
could  1'arn  he'd  invented  to  a  finish  was  how  to  live 
without  workin',  but  he'd  got  that  brought  to  a 
science.  However,  he  was  forever  fussin'  over 
some  kind  of  machine  that  was  sartin  sure  to  give 
power  to  the  universe,  when  'twas  done,  and  Eme- 
line's  husband — his  name  was  Abner — thought  the 
world  and  all  of  him.  'Fore  he  died  he  made  Erne- 
line  promise  to  always  be  kind  to  Bennie  D.,  and 
she  said  she  would.  Abner  left  him  a  little  money, 
and  he  spent  it  travelin'  '  for  his  health.'  I  don't 
know  where  he  traveled  to,  but,  wherever  'twas, 
the  health  must  have  been  there.  He  was  the 
healthiest  critter  ever  I  see — and  the  laziest. 

"  Well,  his  travels  bein'  over,  down  he  comes 
to  make  his  sister-in-law  a  little  visit.  And  he  stays 
on  and  stays  on.  He  never  took  no  shine  to  me — 
I  judge  he  figgered  I  hadn't  no  business  sharin' 
Abner's  property — and  I  never  took  to  him,  much. 

"  Emeline  noticed  Bennie  D.  and  me  wa'n't  fall- 
118 


OUT    OF    THE    BAG 

in'  on  each  other's  necks  any  to  speak  of,  and  it 
troubled  her.  She  blamed  me  for  it.  Said  Bennie 
was  a  genius,  and  geniuses  had  sensitive  natures 
and  had  to  be  treated  with  consideration  and  differ 
ent  from  other  folks.  And  that  promise  to  Abner 
weighed  on  her  conscience,  I  cal'late.  Anyhow,  she 
petted  that  blame  inventor,  and  it  made  me  mad. 
And  yet  I  didn't  say  much — not  so  much  as  I'd 
ought  to,  I  guess.  And  Bennie  D.  was  always 
heavin'  out  little  side  remarks  about  Emeline's 
bein'  fitted  for  better  things  than  she  was  gettin', 
and  how,  when  his  invention  was  '  perfected,'  he' d 
see  that  she  didn't  slave  herself  to  death,  and  so  on 
and  so  on.  And  he  had  consider'ble  to  say  about 
folks  tryin'  to  farm  when  they  didn't  know  a  cu 
cumber  from  a  watermelon,  and  how  '  farmin'  ' 
was  a  good  excuse  for  doin'  nothin',  and  such. 
And  I  didn't  have  any  good  answer  to  that, 
'cause  I  do  know  more  about  seaweed  than  I  do 
cucumbers,  and  the  farm  wasn't  payin'  and  I 
knew  it. 

"  If  he'd  said  these  things  right  out  plain,  I 
guess  likely  I'd  have  give  him  what  he  deserved. 
But  he  didn't;  he  just  hinted  and  smiled  and  acted 
superior  and  pityin'.  And  if  I  got  mad  and  hove 
out  a  little  sailor  talk  by  accident,  he'd  look  as  sorry 

119 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

and  shocked  as  the  Come-Outer  parson  does  when 
there's  a  baby  born  to  a  Universalist  family.  He'd 
get  up  and  shut  the  door,  as  if  he  was  scart  the 
neighbors'  morals  would  suffer — though  the  only 
neighbor  within  hearin'  was  an  old  critter  that  used 
to  run  a  billiard  saloon  in  Gloucester,  and  his  mor 
als  had  been  put  out  of  their  misery  forty  years 
afore — and  he'd  suggest  that  Emeline  better  leave 
the  room,  maybe.  And  then  I'd  feel  ashamed  and 
wouldn't  know  what  to  do,  and  'twould  end, 
more'n  likely,  by  my  leavin'  it  myself. 

'  You  can  see  how  matters  was  driftin'.  I  could 
see  plain  enough,  and  I  cal'late  Emeline  could,  too 
— I'll  give  her  credit  for  that.  She  didn't  begin  to 
look  as  happy  as  she  had,  and  that  made  me  feel 
worse  than  ever.  One  time,  I  found  her  cryin'  in 
the  wash  room,  and  I  went  up  and  put  my  arm 
round  her. 

"  '  Emeline,'  I  says,  '  don't;  please  don't.  Don't 
cry.  I  know  I  ain't  the  husband  I'd  ought  to  be  to 
you,  but  I'm  doin'  my  best.  I'm  tryin'  to  do  it.  I 
ain't  a  genius,'  I  says. 

"  She  interrupted  me  quick,  sort  of  half 
laughin'  and  half  cryin'.  '  No,  Seth,'  says  she, 
1  you  ain't,  that's  a  fact.' 

"  That  made  me  sort  of  mad.  '  No,  I  ain't,'  I 
120 


OUT    OF   THE    BAG 

says  again;  '  and  if  you  ask  me,  I'd  say  one  in  the 
house  was  enough,  and  to  spare.' 

"  '  I  know  you  don't  like  Bennie,'  she  says. 

'Taint  that,'  says  I,  which  was  a  lie.  '  It  ain't 
that,'  I  says;  'but  somehow  I  don't  seem  to  fit 
around  here.  Bennie  and  me,  we  don't  seem  to 
belong  together.' 

'  He  is  Abner's  brother,'  she  says,  '  and  I 
promised  Abner.  /  can't  tell  him  to  go.  /  can't 
tell  him  to  leave  this  house,  his  brother's  house.' 

"  Now,  consarn  it,  there  was  another  thing.  It 
was  Abner's  house,  or  had  been  afore  he  died,  and 
now  'twas  hers.  If  I  ever  forgot  that  fact,  which 
wa'n't  by  no  means  likely  to  happen,  Bennie  D. 
took  occasions  enough  to  remind  me  of  it.  So  I 
was  set  back  again  with  my  canvas  flappin',  as  you 
might  say. 

'  No,'  says  I,  '  course  you  can't.  He's  your 
brother-in-law.' 

'  But  you  are  my  husband,'  she  says,  lookin' 
at  me  kind  of  queer.  Anyhow,  it  seems  kind  of 
queer  to  me  now.  I've  thought  about  that  look  a 
good  deal  since,  and  sometimes  I've  wondered  if — 
if  ...  However,  that's  all  past  and  by. 

'  Yes,'  I  says,  pretty  average  bitter,  '  but  sec 
ond  husbands  don't  count  for  much.' 

121 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  '  Some  of  'em  don't  seem  to,  that's  a  fact,'  she 
says. 

"  '  By  jiminy,'  I  says,  '  I  don't  count  for  much  in 
this  house.' 

"  '  Yes?  '  says  she.     '  And  whose  fault  is  that?  ' 

"  Well,  I  was  mad.  '  I  tell  you  what  I  can  do,' 
I  sings  out.  '  I  can  quit  this  landlubber's  job  where 
I'm  nothin'  but  a  swab,  and  go  to  sea  again,  where 
I'm  some  account.  That's  what  I  can  do.' 

"  She  turned  and  looked  at  me. 

"  '  You  promised  me  never  to  go  to  sea  again,' 
she  says. 

"  '  Humph !  '  says  I ;  '  some  promises  are  hard  to 
keep.' 

"  '  I  keep  mine,  hard  or  not,'  says  she.  '  Would 
you  go  away  and  leave  me  ?  ' 

"  '  You've  got  Brother  Bennie,'  says  I.  '  He's 
a  genius;  I  ain't  nothin'  but  a  man.' 

"  She  laughed,  pretty  scornful.  '  Are  you  sartin 
you're  that? '  she  wanted  to  know. 

'  Not  since  I  been  livin'  here,  I  ain't,'  I  says. 
And  that  ended  that  try  of  makin'  up. 

"  And  from  then  on  it  got  worse  and  worse. 
There  wan't  much  comfort  at  home  where  the  in 
ventor  was,  so  I  took  to  stayin'  out  nights.  Went 
down  to  the  store  and  hung  around,  listenin'  to 

122 


OUT   OF   THE    BAG 

fools'  gabble,  and  wishin'  I  was  dead.  And  the 
more  I  stayed  out,  the  more  Bennie  D.  laughed 
and  sneered  and  hinted.  And  then  come  that  ridic'- 
lous  business  about  Sarah  Ann  Christy.  That 
ended  it  for  good  and  all." 

Seth  paused  in  his  long  story  and  looked  out 
across  the  starlit  sea. 

"Who  was  Sarah  Ann?"  asked  Brown.  The 
lightkeeper  seemed  much  embarrassed. 

"  She  was  a  born  fool,"  he  declared,  with  em 
phasis;  "  born  that  way  and  been  developin'  extry 
foolishness  ever  since.  She  was  a  widow,  too; 
been  good  lookin'  once  and  couldn't  forget  it,  and 
she  lived  down  nigh  the  store.  When  I'd  be  goin' 
down  or  comin'  back,  just  as  likely  as  not  she  was 
settin'  on  the  piazza,  and  she'd  hail  me.  I  didn't 
want  to  stop  and  talk  to  her,  of  course." 

"  No,  of  course  not." 

"  Well,  I  didn't.  And  I  didn't  have  to  talk. 
Couldn't  if  I  wanted  to;  she  done  it  all.  Her 
tongue  was  hung  on  ball-bearin'  hinges  and  was  a 
self-winder  guaranteed  to  run  an  hour  steady  every 
time  she  set  it  goin'.  Talk!  my  jiminy  crimps, 
how  that  woman  could  talk!  I  couldn't  get  away; 
I  tried  to,  but,  my  soul,  she  wouldn't  let  me.  And, 
if  'twas  a  warm  night,  she'd  more'n  likely  have  a 

123 


THE   WOMAN-HATERS 

pitcher  of  lemonade  or  some  sort  of  cold  wash 
alongside,  and  I  must  stop  and  taste  it.  By  time, 
I  can  taste  it  yet ! 

"  Well,  there  wa'n't  no  harm  in  her  at  all;  she 
was  just  a  fool  that  had  to  talk  to  somebody,  males 
preferred.  But  my  stayin'  out  nights  wasn't  helpin' 
the  joyfulness  of  things  to  home,  and  one  evenin' 
— one  evenin'  .  .  .  Oh,  there  !  I  started  to  tell 
you  this  and  I  might's  well  get  it  over. 

'  This  evenin'  when  I  came  home  from  the  store 
I  see  somethin'  was  extry  wrong  soon's  I  struck  the 
settin'  room.  Ejneline  was  there,  and  Bennie  D., 
and  I  give  you  my  word,  I  felt  like  turnin'  up  my 
coat  collar,  'twas  so  frosty.  'Twas  hotter'n  a 
steamer's  stoke-hole  outside,  but  that  room  was 
forty  below  zero. 

"  Nobody  said  nothin',  you  know — that  was  the 
worst  of  it;  but  I'd  have  been  glad  if  they  had. 
Finally,  I  said  it  myself.  '  Well,  Emeline,'  says  I, 
*  here  I  be.' 

"  No  answer,  so  I  tried  again.  '  Well,  Erne- 
line,'  says  I,  '  I've  fetched  port  finally.' 

"  She  didn't  answer  me  then,  but  Bennie  D. 
laughed.  He  had  a  way  of  laughin'  that  made 
other  folks  want  to  cry — or  kill  him.  For  choice 
I'd  have  done  the  killin'  first. 

124 


OUT    OF   THE    BAG 

"  *  More  nautical  conversation,  sister,'  says  he. 
'  He  knows  how  fond  you  are  of  that  sort  of  thing.' 
"  You  see,  Emeline  never  did  like  to  hear  me 
talk  sailor  talk;  it  reminded  her  too  much  that  I 
used  to  be  a  sailor,  I  s'pose.  And  that  inventor 
knew  she  didn't  like  it,  and  so  he  rubbed  it  in  every 
time  I  made  a  slip.  'Twas  just  one  of  his  little 
ways;  he  had  a  million  of  'em. 

"  But  I  tried  once  more.  '  Emeline,'  I  says,  *  I'm 
home.  Can't  you  speak  to  me?  ' 

'  Then  she  looked  at  me.    '  Yes,  Seth,'  says  she, 
'  I  see  you  are  home.' 

"  '  At  last,'  put  in  brother-in-law,  '  "  There  is  no 
place  like  home  " — when  the  other  places  are  shut 
up.'  And  he  laughed  again. 

'  Stop,  Bennie,'  says  Emeline,  and  he  stopped. 
That  was  another  of  his  little  ways — to  do 
anything  she  asked  him.  Then  she  turned  to 
me. 

'  Seth,'  she  asks,  '  where  have  you  been?  ' 
'  Oh,  down  street,'  says  I,  casual.     *  It's  tum 
ble  warm  out.' 

"  She  never  paid  no  attention  to  the  weather  sig 
nals.  '  Where  'bouts  down  street  ?  '  she  wanted  to 
know. 

'  Oh,  down  to  the  store,'  I  says. 
125 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  '  You  go  to  the  store  a  good  deal,  don't  you,' 
says  she.  Bennie  D.  chuckled,  and  then  begged  her 
pardon.  That  chuckle  stirred  my  mad  up. 

'  I  go  where  folks  seem  to  be  glad  to  see  me,' 
I  says.  '  Where  they  treat  me  as  if  I  was  some 
body.' 

'  So  you  was  at  the  store  the  whole  evenin'  ? ' 
she  asks. 

'  Course  I  was,'  says  I.  '  Where  else  would  I 
be?' 

"  She  looked  at  me  hard,  and  her  face  sort  of 
set.  She  didn't  answer,  but  took  up  the  sewin'  in 
her  lap  and  went  to  work  on  it.  I  remember  she 
dropped  it  once,  and  Bennie  D.  jumped  to  pick  it 
up  for  her,  quick  as  a  wink.  I  set  down  in  the 
rockin'  chair  and  took  the  Gloucester  paper.  But 
I  didn't  really  read.  The  clock  ticked  and  ticked, 
and  'twas  so  still  you  could  hear  every  stroke  of 
the  pendulum.  Finally,  I  couldn't  stand  it  no 
longer. 

"  '  What  on  earth  is  the  matter?  '  I  sings  out. 
'What  have  I  done  this  time?  Don't  you  want 
me  to  go  to  the  store?  Is  that  it?  ' 

"  She  put  down  her  sewin'.  '  Seth,'  says  she, 
quiet  but  awful  cold,  '  I  want  you  to  go  anywheres 
that  you  want  to  go.  I  never'll  stand  in  your 

126 


OUT    OF   THE    BAG 

way.     But   I   want  you  tell  the    truth   about   it 
afterwards.' 

"  *  The  truth  ?  '  says  I.  '  Don't  I  always  tell  you 
the  truth  ? ' 

"  '  No,'  says  she.  '  You've  lied  to  me  tonight. 
You've  been  callin'  on  the  Christy  woman,  and  you 
know  it.' 

"  Well,  you  could  have  knocked  me  down  with 
a  baby's  rattle.  I'd  forgot  all  about  that  fool 
Sarah  Ann.  I  cal'late  I  turned  nineteen  different 
shades  of  red,  and  for  a  minute  I  couldn't  think  of 
a  word  to  say.  And  Bennie  D.  smiled,  wicked  as 
the  Old  Harry  himself. 

"  '  How — how  did  you — how  do  you  know  I  see 
Sarah  Ann  Christy  ?  '  I  hollered  out,  soon's  I  could 
get  my  breath. 

"  '  Because  you  were  seen  there,'  says  she. 

'"Who  see  me?' 

'  I  did,'  says  she.  '  I  went  down  street  myself, 
on  an  errand,  and,  bein'  as  you  weren't  here  to  go 
with  me,  Bennie  was  good  enough  to  go.  It  ain't 
pleasant  for  a  woman  to  go  out  alone  after  dark, 
and — and  I  have  never  been  used  to  it,'  she  says. 

'  That  kind  of  hurt  me  and  pricked  my  con 
science,  as  you  may  say. 

'  You  know  I'd  been  tickled  to  death  to  go  with 
127 


THE   WOMAN-HATERS 

you,  Emeline,'  I  says.     '  Any  time,  you  know  it. 
But  you  never  asked  me  to  go  with  you.' 

'  How  long  has  it  been  since  you  asked  to  go 
with  me  ?  '  she  says. 

"  '  Do  you  really  want  me  to  go  anywheres, 
Emeline?  '  says  I,  eager.  'Do  you?  I  s'posed  you 
didn't.  If  you'd  asked ' 

"  '  Why  should  I  always  do  the  askin'?  Must 
a  wife  always  ask  her  husband?  Doesn't  the  hus 
band  ever  do  anything  on  his  own  responsibility? 
Seth,  I  married  you  because  I  thought  you  was  a 
strong,  self-reliant  man,  who  would  advise  me  and 
protect  me  and ' 

"  That  cussed  inventor  bust  into  the  talk  right 
here.  I  cal'late  he  thought  'twas  time. 

"  '  Excuse  me,  sister,'  he  says;  '  don't  humiliate 
yourself  afore  him.  Remember  you  and  me  saw 
him  tonight,  saw  him  with  our  own  eyes,  settin' 
on  a  dark  piazza  with  another  woman.  Drinkin' 
with  her  and ' 

"  '  Drinkin' ! '  I  yells. 

"  '  Yes,  drinkin','  says  he,  solemn.  '  I  don't 
wonder  you  are  ashamed  of  it.' 

"  'Ashamed!     I  ain't  ashamed.' 

"  'You  hear  that,  sister?  Now  I  hope  you're 
convinced.' 

128 


OUT    OF    THE    BAG 

""Twa'n't  nothin'but  lemonade  I  was  drinkin',' 
I  hollers,  pretty  nigh  crazy.  '  She  asked  me  to 
stop  and  have  a  glass  'cause  'twas  so  hot.  And  as 
for  callin'  on  her,  I  wa'n't.  I  was  just  passin'  by, 
and  she  sings  out  what  a  dreadful  night  'twas,  and 
I  said  'twas,  too,  and  she  says  won't  I  have  some- 
thin'  cold  to  drink.  That's  all  there  was  to  it.' 

"  Afore  Emeline  could  answer,  Bennie  comes 
back  at  me  again. 

'  Perhaps  you'll  tell  us  this  was  the  first  time 
you  have  visited  her,'  he  purrs. 

"  Well,  that  was  a  sockdolager,  'cause  'twa'n't 
the  first  time.  I  don't  know  how  many  times  'twas. 
I  never  kept  no  account  of  'em.  Too  glad  to  get 
away  from  her  everlastin'  tongue-clackin'.  But 
when  'twas  put  right  up  to  me  this  way,  I — I  de 
clare  I  was  all  fussed  up.  I  felt  sick  and  I  guess 
I  looked  so.  Emeline  was  lookin'  at  me  and  seem- 
in'ly  waitin'  for  me  to  say  somethin';  yet  I  couldn't 
say  it.  And  Bennie  D.  laughed,  quiet  but  wicked. 

'  That  laugh  fixed  me.  I  swung  round  and  lit 
into  him. 

'  You  mind  your  own  business,'  I  roars. 
'  Ain't  you  ashamed,  makin'  trouble  with  a  man's 
wife  in  his  own  house?  ' 

'  I   was  under  the   impression  the  house  be- 
129 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

longed  to  my  sister-in-law,'  he  says.    And  again  I 
was  knocked  off  my  pins. 

'  You  great  big  loafer!  '  I  yelled  at  him;  '  set- 
tin'  here  doin'  nothin'  but  raisin'  the  divil  gener 
ally!  I— 1_ 

"  He  jumped  as  if  I'd  stuck  a  brad-awl  into  him. 
The  shocked  expression  came  across  his  face  again, 
and  he  runs  to  Emeline  and  takes  her  arm. 

'  Sister,  sister,'  he  says,  quick,  but  gentle,  '  this 
is  no  place  for  you.  Language  like  that  is  ... 
there  !  there  !  don't  you  think  you'd  better  leave  the 
room  ?  ' 

"  She  didn't  go.  As  I  remember  it  now,  it  keeps 
comin'  back  to  me  that  she  didn't  go.  She  just 
stood  still  and  looked  at  me.  And  then  she  says : 
'  Seth,  why  did  you  lie  to  me? ' 

"  '  I  didn't  lie,'  I  shouts.  '  I  forgot,  I  tell  you. 
I  never  thought  that  windmill  of  a  Christy  woman 
was  enough  importance  to  remember.  I  didn't  lie 
to  you — I  never  did.  Oh,  Emeline,  you  know  I 
didn't.  What's  the  matter  with  you  and  me,  any 
way?  We  used  to  be  all  right  and  now  we're  all 
wrong.' 

'  One  of  us  is,'  says  Bennie  D.  That  was  the 
final  straw  that  choked  the  camel. 

'  Yes,'  I  says  to  him,  '  that's  right,  one  of  us 
130 


OUT    OF    THE    BAG 

is,  and  I  don't  know  which.  But  I  know  this: 
you  and  I  can't  stay  together  in  this  house  any 
longer.' 

"  I  can  see  that  room  now,  as  'twas  when  I  said 
that.  Us  three  lookin'  at  each  other,  and  the  clock 
a-tickin',  and  everything  else  still  as  still.  I 
choked,  but  I  kept  on. 

"  '  I  mean  it,'  I  says.  '  Either  you  clear  out  of 
this  house  or  I  do.' 

"  And,  while  the  words  was  on  my  lips,  again  it 
came  to  me  strong  that  it  wa'n't  really  my  house  at 
all.  I  turned  to  my  wife. 

"  '  Emeline,'  says  I,  '  it's  got  to  be.  You  must 
tell  him  to  go,  or  else ' 

"  She'd  been  lookin'  at  me  again  with  that  kind 
of  queer  look  in  her  eyes,  almost  a  hopeful  look, 
seem's  if  'twas,  and  yet  it  couldn't  have  been,  of 
course.  Now  she  drawed  a  long  breath. 

"  '  I  can't  tell  him  to  go,  Seth,'  says  she.  *  I 
promised  to  give  him  a  home  as  long  as  I  had  one.' 

"I  set  my  jaws  together.  'All  right,'  I  says; 
'  then  I'm  goin'.  Good  by.' 

"  And  I  went.  Yes,  sir,  I  went.  Just  as  I  was, 
without  any  hat  or  dunnage  of  any  kind.  When  I 
slammed  the  back  door  it  seemed  as  if  I  heard  her 
sing  out  my  name.  I  waited,  but  I  guess  I  was  mis- 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

taken,  for  she  didn't  call  it  again.  And — and  I 
never  set  eyes  on  her  since.  No,  sir,  not  once." 

The  lightkeeper  stopped.  John  Brown  said 
nothing,  but  he  laid  a  hand  sympathetically  on  the 
older  man's  shoulder.  Seth  shuddered,  straight 
ened,  and  went  on. 

"  I  cleared  out  of  that  town  that  very  night," 
he  said.  "  Walked  clear  into  Gloucester,  put  up  at 
a  tavern  there  till  mornin',  and  then  took  the  cars 
to  Boston.  I  cal'lated  fust  that  I'd  ship  as  mate  or 
somethin'  on  a  foreign  voyage,  but  I  couldn't; 
somehow  I  couldn't  bring  myself  to  do  it.  You  see, 
I'd  promised  her  I  wouldn't  ever  go  to  sea  again, 
and  so — well,  I  was  a  dum  idiot,  I  s'pose,  but  I 
wouldn't  break  the  promise.  I  knew  the  superin 
tendent  of  lighthouses  in  this  district,  and  I'd  been 
an  assistant  keeper  when  I  was  younger.  I  told 
him  my  yarn,  and  he  told  me  about  this  job.  I 
changed  my  name,  passed  the  examination  and 
come  directly  here.  And  here  I've  stayed  ever 
since." 

He  paused  again.  Brown  ventured  to  ask  an 
other  question. 

"And  your — and  the  lady?"  he  asked. 
"Where  is  she?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Livin'  in  her  house  back  there 
132 


OUT    OF    THE    BAG 

on  Cape  Ann,  I  s'pose.  She  was,  last  I  knew.  I 
never  ask  no  questions.  I  want  to  forget — to  for 
get,  by  time !  ...  Hi  hum !  .  .  .  Well, 
now  you  know  what  nobody  this  side  of  Boston 
knows.  And  you  can  understand  why  I'm  willin' 
to  be  buried  alive  down  here.  'Cause  a  woman 
wrecked  my  life ;  I'm  done  with  women ;  and  to  this 
forsaken  hole  no  women  scarcely  ever  come.  But, 
when  they  do  come,  you  must  understand  that  I  ex 
pect  you  to  show  'em  round.  After  hearin'  what 
I've  been  through,  I  guess  you'll  be  willin'  to  do 
that  much  for  me." 

He  rose,  evidently  considering  the  affair  settled. 
Brown  stroked  his  chin. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Atkins,"  he  observed,  slowly;  "  and 
I  certainly  do  sympathize  with  you.  But — but, 
as  I  said,  '  I  guess  you'll  have  to  hire  another 
boy!'" 

"  What?    What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  mean  that  you're  not  the  only  woman-hater 
on  the  beach." 

"  Hey?     Has  a  woman  given  you  the  go  by?  " 

''  No.  The  other  way  around,  if  anything. 
Look  here,  Atkins !  I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  discuss 
ing  my  private  affairs  with  acquaintances,  but 
you've  been  frank  with  me — and  well,  hang  it !  I've 
1°  133 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

got  to  talk  to  somebody.  At  least,  I  feel  that  way 
just  now.  Let's  suppose  a  case.  Suppose  you  were 
a  young  fellow  not  long  out  of  college — a  young 
fellow  whose  mother  was  dead  and  whose  dad  was 
rich,  and  head  over  heels  in  money-making,  and 
with  the  idea  that  his  will  was  no  more  to  be  dis 
puted  than  a  law  of  the  Almighty.  Just  suppose 
that,  will  you?  " 

"  Huh !  Well,  'twill  be  hard  supposin',  but  I'll 
try.  Heave  ahead." 

"  Suppose  that  you'd  never  been  used  to  working 
or  supporting  yourself.  Had  a  position,  a  nominal 
one,  in  your  dad's  office  but  absolutely  no  responsi 
bility,  all  the  money  you  wanted,  and  so  on.  Sup 
pose  because  your  father  wanted  you  to — and  her 
people  felt  the  same — you  had  become  engaged  to 
a  girl,  a  nice  enough  girl,  too,  in  her  way.  But 
then  suppose  that  little  by  little  you  came  to  realize 
that  her  way  wasn't  yours.  You  and  she  liked  each 
other  well  enough,  but  the  whole  thing  was  a  fam 
ily  arrangement,  a  money  arrangement,  a  perfectly 
respectable,  buy-and-sell  affair.  That  and  nothing 
else.  And  the  more  you  thought  about  it,  the  surer 
you  felt  that  it  was  so.  But  when  you  told  your 
governor  he  got  on  his  ear  and  sailed  into  you,  and 
you  sailed  back,  until  finally  he  swore  that  you 

134 


OUT    OF    THE    BAG 

should  either  marry  that  girl  or  he'd  throw  you 
out  of  his  house  and  office  to  root  for  yourself. 
What  would  you  do  ?  " 

"  Hey?  Land  sakes !  I  don't  know.  /  always 
had  to  root,  so  I  ain't  a  competent  judge.  Go  on, 
you've  got  me  interested." 

"  Well,  I  said  I'd  root,  that's  all.  But  I  didn't 
have  the  nerve  to  go  and  tell  the  girl.  The  engage 
ment  had  been  announced,  and  all  that,  and  I  knew 
what  a  mess  it  would  make  for  her.  I  sat  in  my 
room,  among  the  things  I  was  packing  in  my  grip 
to  take  with  me,  and  thought  and  thought.  If  I 
went  to  her  there  would  be  a  scene.  If  I  said  I  had 
been  disinherited  she  would  want  to  know  why — 
naturally.  I  had  quarreled  with  the  governor — 
yes,  but  why  ?  Then  I  should  have  to  tell  her  the 
real  reason :  I  didn't  want  to  marry  her  or  anybody 
else  on  such  a  bargain-counter  basis.  That  seemed 
such  a  rotten  thing  to  say,  and  she  might  ask  why  it 
had  taken  me  such  a  long  time  to  find  it  out.  No, 
I  just  couldn't  tell  her  that.  So,  after  my  think 
was  over,  I  wrote  her  a  note  saying  that  my  father 
and  I  had  had  a  disagreement  and  he  had  chucked 
me  out,  or  words  to  that  effect.  Naturally,  under 
the  circumstances,  marriage  was  out  of  the  ques 
tion,  and  I  released  her  from  the  engagement. 

135 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

Good  by  and  good  luck — or  something  similar.  I 
mailed  the  letter  and  left  the  town  the  next  morn- 
ing." 

He  paused.  The  lightkeeper  made  no  comment. 
After  a  moment  the  young  man  continued. 

"  I  landed  in  Boston,"  he  said,  "  full  of  conceit 
and  high-minded  ideas  of  working  my  own  way  up 
the  ladder.  But  in  order  to  work  up,  you've  got 
to  get  at  least  a  hand-hold  on  the  bottom  rung.  I 
couldn't  get  it.  Nobody  wanted  a  genteel  loafer, 
which  was  me.  My  money  gave  out.  I  bought  a 
steamboat  passage  to  another  city,  but  I  didn't  have 
enough  left  to  buy  a  square  meal.  Then,  by  bull 
luck,  I  fell  overboard  and  landed  here.  And  here 
I  found  the  solution.  I'm  dead.  If  the  governor 
gets  soft-hearted  and  gets  private  detectives  on  my 
trail,  they'll  find  I  disappeared  from  that  steamer, 
that's  all.  Drowned,  of  course.  She'll  think  so, 
too.  '  Good  riddance  to  bad  rubbish  '  is  the  gen 
eral  verdict.  I  can  stay  here  a  year  or  so,  and  then, 
being  dead  and  forgotten,  can  go  back  to  civiliza 
tion  and  hustle  for  myself.  But  a  woman  is  at  the 
bottom  of  my  trouble,  and  I  never  want  to  see  an 
other.  So,  if  my  staying  here  depends  upon  my  see 
ing  them,  I  guess,  as  I've  said  twice  already,  '  you'll 
have  to  hire  another  boy.'  ' 

136 


OUT    OF    THE    BAG 

He,  too,  rose.  Seth  laid  a  big  hand  on  his  shoul 
der. 

"  Son,"  said  the  lightkeeper,  "  I'm  sorry  for 
you;  I  cal'late  I  know  how  you  feel.  I  like  you 
fust-rate,  and  if  it's  a  possible  thing,  I'll  fix  it  so's 
you  can  stay  right  here  long's  you  want  to.  As  for 
women  folks  that  do  come — why,  we'll  dodge  'em 
if  we  can,  and  share  responsibility  if  we  must.  But 
there's  one  thing  you've  got  to  understand.  You're 
young,  and  maybe  your  woman  hate'll  wear  off.  If 
it  does,  out  you  go.  I  can't  have  any  sparkin'  or 
lovemakin'  around  these  premises." 

The  assistant  snorted  contemptuously. 

"If  ever  you  catch  me  being  even  coldly  famil 
iar  with  a  female  of  any  age,"  he  declared,  "  I 
hereby  request  that  you  hit  me,  politely,  but  firmly, 
with  that  axe,"  pointing  to  the  kindling  hatchet 
leaning  against  the  door  post. 

Seth  chuckled.  "Good  stuff!"  he  exclaimed. 
"  And,  for  my  part,  if  ever  you  catch  me  gettin' 
confectionery  with  a  woman,  I  ...  well,  don't 
stop  to  pray  over  me;  just  drown  me,  that's  all  I 
ask.  It's  a  bargain.  Shake!  " 

So  they  shook,  with  great  solemnity. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

NEIGHBORS   AND   WASPS 

AND  now  affairs  at  the  lights  settled  down 
into  a  daily  routine  in  which  the  light- 
keeper  and  his  helper  each  played  his 
appointed  part.     All  mysteries  now  being  solved, 
and  the  trust  between  them  mutual  and  without 
reserve,   they  no  longer  were  on  their  guard   in 
each  other's  presence,  but  talked  freely  on  all  sorts 
of  topics,   and  expressed  their  mutual  dislike  of 
woman  with   frequency   and  point.      No   regular 
assistant  was  appointed  or  seemed  likely  to  be,  for 
the  summer,  at  least.     Seth  and  his  friend,  the  su 
perintendent,   held   another   lengthy   conversation 
over  the  wire,  and,  while  Brown's  uncertain  status 
remained  the  same,  there  was  a  tacit  understanding 
that,  by  the  first  of  September,  if  the  young  man 
was  sufficiently  "  broken  in,"  the  position  vacated 
by  Ezra  Payne  should  be  his — if  he  still  wanted  it. 
'  You  may  change  your  mind  by  that  time,"  ob- 
138 


NEIGHBORS   AND   WASPS 

served  Seth.  "  This  ain't  no  place  for  a  chap  with 
your  trainin',  and  I  know  it.  It  does  well  enough 
for  an  old  derelict  like  me,  with  nobody  to  care  a 
hang  whether  he  lives  or  dies,  but  you're  different. 
And  even  for  me  the  lonesomeness  of  it  drives  me 
'most  crazy  sometimes.  I've  noticed  you've  been 
havin'  blue  streaks  more  often  than  when  you  first 
came.  I  cal'late  that  by  fall  you'll  be  headin'  some- 
wheres  else,  Mr.  '  John  Brown,'  "  with  significant 
emphasis  upon  the  name. 

Brown  stoutly  denied  being  "  bluer "  than 
usual,  and  his  superior  did  not  press  the  point. 
Seth  busied  himself  in  his  spare  time  with  the  work 
on  the  Daisy  M.  and  with  his  occasional  trips  be 
hind  Joshua  to  the  village.  Brown  might  have 
made  some  of  these  trips,  but  he  did  not  care  to. 
Solitude  and  seclusion  he  still  desired,  and  there 
were  more  of  these  than  anything  else  at  the  Twin- 
Lights. 

The  lightkeeper  experimented  with  no  more 
dogs,  but  he  had  evidently  not  forgotten  the  life- 
saving  man's  warning  concerning  possible  thieves, 
for  he  purchased  a  big  spring-lock  in  Eastboro  and 
attached  it  to  the  door  of  the  boathouse  on  the 
little  wharf.  The  lock  was,  at  first,  a  good  deal 
more  of  a  nuisance  than  an  advantage,  for  the  key 

139 


THE   WOMAN-HATERS 

was  always  being  forgotten  or  mislaid,  and,  on  one 
occasion,  the  door  bleyv  shut  with  Atkins  inside  the 
building,  and  he  pounded  and  shrieked  for  ten 
minutes  before  his  helper  heard  him  and  descended 
to  the  rescue. 

June  crawled  by,  and  July  came.  Crawled  is  the 
proper  word,  for  John  Brown  had  never  known 
days  so  long  or  weeks  so  unending  as  those  of  that 
early  summer.  The  monotony  was  almost  never 
broken,  and  he  began  to  find  it  deadly.  He  in 
vented  new  duties  about  the  lights  and  added  swim 
ming  and  walks  up  and  down  the  beach  to  his  lim 
ited  list  of  recreations. 

The  swimming  he  especially  enjoyed.  The  cove 
made  a  fine  bathing  place,  and  the  boathouse  was 
his  dressing  room,  though  the  fragrance  of  the 
ancient  fish  nets  stored  within  it  was  not  that  of 
attar  of  roses.  A  cheap  bathing  suit  was  one  of  the 
luxuries  Atkins  had  bought  for  him,  by  request, 
in  Eastboro.  Seth  bought  the  suit  under  protest, 
for  he  scoffed  openly  at  his  helper's  daily  bath. 

"  I  should  think,"  the  lightkeeper  declared  over 
and  over  again,  "  that  you'd  had  salt  water  soak 
enough  to  last  you  for  one  spell ;  a  feller  that  come 
as  nigh  drownin'  as  you  done !  " 

Seth  did  not  care  for  swimming;  the  wash- 
140 


NEIGHBORS   AND    WASPS 

tub  every  Saturday  night  furnished  him  with  baths 
sufficient. 

He  was  particular  to  warn  his  helper  against  the 
tide  in  the  inlet:  "The  cove's  all  right,"  he  said, 
"  but  you  want  to  look  out  and  not  try  to  swim 
in  the  crick  where  it's  narrow,  or  in  that  deep  hole 
by  the  end  of  the  wharf,  where  the  lobster  car's 
moored.  When  the  tide's  comin'  in  or  it's  dead 
high  water,  the  current's  strong  there.  On  the  ebb 
it'll  snake  you  out  into  the  breakers  sure  as  I'm 
settin'  here  tellin'  you.  The  cove's  all  right  and 
good  and  safe;  but  keep  away  from  the  narrer  part 
of  the  crick." 

Swimming  was  good  fun,  and  walking,  on  pleas 
ant  days,  was  an  aid  in  shaking  off  depression;  but, 
in  spite  of  his  denials  and  his  attempts  at  appear 
ing  contented,  the  substitute  assistant  realized  that 
he  was  far  from  that  happy  condition.  He  did 
not  want  to  meet  people,  least  of  all  people  of  his 
own  station  in  life — his  former  station.  Atkins 
was  a  fine  chap,  in  his  way;  but  .  .  .  Brown  was 
lonely  .  .  .  and  when  one  is  lonely,  one  thinks 
of  what  might  have  been,  and,  perhaps,  regrets. 
Regrets,  unavailing  regrets,  are  the  poorest  com 
panions  possible. 

The  lightkeeper,  too,  seemed  lonely,  which,  con- 
141 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

sidering  his  years  of  experience  in  his  present  sit 
uation,  was  odd.  He  explained  his  loneliness  one 
evening  by  observing  that  he  cal'lated  he  missed  the 
painting  chaps. 

"  What  painting  chaps?  "  asked  Brown. 

44  Oh,  them  two  young  fellers  that  always  used 
to  come  to  the  cottage — what  you  call  the  bun 
galow — across  the  cove  there,  the  ones  I  told 
you  about.  They  was  real  friendly,  sociable 
young  chaps,  and  I  kind  of  liked  to  have  'em 
runnin'  in  and  out.  Seems  queer  to  have  it  July, 
and  they  not  here  to  hail  me  and  come  over 
to  borrow  stuff.  And  they  was  forever  settin' 
around  under  white  sunshades,  sloppin'  paint  onto 
paper.  I  most  wish  they  hadn't  gone  to  Europe. 
I  cal'late  you'd  have  liked  'em,  too." 

14  Perhaps,"  said  the  helper,  doubtfully. 

44  Oh,  you  would;  no  perhaps  about  it.  It  don't 
seem  right  to  see  the  bungalow  all  shuttered  up  and 
deserted  this  time  of  year.  You'd  have  liked  to 
meet  them  young  painters;  they  was  your  kind." 

4  Yes,  I  know.  Perhaps  that's  why  I  shouldn't 
like  to  meet  them." 

u  Hey?  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  yes;  I  see.  I  never 
thought  of  that.  But  'tain't  likely  they'd  know 
you ;  they  hailed  from  Boston,  not  New  York." 

142 


NEIGHBORS    AND    WASPS 

"  How  did  you  know  I  came  from  New  York? 
I  didn't  tell  you  that." 

"  No,  you  didn't,  that's  a  fact.  But  you  said 
you  left  the  city  where  you  lived  and  came  to  Bos 
ton,  so  I  sort  of  guessed  New  York.  But  that's 
all  right;  I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care.  Names 
and  places  you  and  me  might  just  as  well  not  tell, 
even  to  each  other.  If  we  don't  tell  them,  we  can 
answer  '  don't  know  '  to  questions  and  tell  the 
truth;  hey?" 

One  morning  about  a  week  later,  Brown,  his 
dish  washing  and  sweeping  done,  was  busy  in  the 
light-room  at  the  top  of  the  right  hand  tower,  pol 
ishing  the  brass  of  the  lantern.  The  curtains  were 
drawn  on  the  landward  side,  and  those  toward  the 
sea  open.  Seth,  having  finished  his  night  watch 
ing  and  breakfast,  was  audibly  asleep  in  the  house. 
Brown  rubbed  and  polished  leisurely,  his  thoughts 
far  away,  and  a  frown  on  his  face.  For  the  thou 
sandth  time  that  week  he  decided  that  he  was  a 
loafer  and  a  vagabond,  and  that  it  would  have  been 
much  better  for  himself,  and  creation  generally,  if 
he  had  never  risen  after  the  plunge  over  the  steam 
er's  rail. 

He  pulled  the  cloth  cover  over  the  glittering 
lantern  and  descended  the  iron  stair  to  the  ground 

143 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

floor.  When  he  emerged  into  the  open  air,  he 
heard  a  sound  which  made  him  start  and  listen. 
The  sound  was  the  distant  rattle  of  wheels  from 
the  direction  of  the  village.  Was  another  "  pic 
nic  "  coming?  He  walked  briskly  to  the  corner  of 
the  house  and  peered  down  the  winding  road.  A 
carnage  was  in  sight  certainly,  but  it  was  going, 
not  coming.  He  watched  it  move  further  away 
each  moment.  Someone — not  the  grocer  or  a 
tradesman — was  driving  to  the  village.  But  where 
had  he  been,  and  who  was  he?  Not  Seth,  for  Seth 
was  asleep — he  could  hear  him. 

The  driver  of  the  carriage,  whoever  he  was,  had 
not  visited  the  lights.  And,  as  Atkins  had  said, 
there  was  nowhere  else  to  go  on  that  road.  Brown, 
puzzled,  looked  about  him,  at  the  sea,  the  lights, 
the  house,  the  creek,  the  cove,  the  bluff  on  the  other 
side  of  the  cove,  the  bungalow — ah  !  the  bungalow ! 

For  the  door  of  the  bungalow  was  open,  and  one 
or  two  of  the  shutters  were  down.  The  carriage 
had  brought  some  person  or  persons  to  the  bunga 
low  and  left  them  there.  Instantly,  of  course, 
Brown  thought  of  the  artists  from  Boston.  Prob 
ably  they  had  changed  their  minds  and  decided  to 
summer  at  Eastboro  after  all.  His  frown  deep 
ened. 

144 


NEIGHBORS   AND    WASPS 

Then,  from  across  the  cove,  from  the  bungalow, 
came  a  shrill  scream,  a  feminine  scream.  The  as 
sistant  started,  scarcely  believing  his  ears.  Before 
he  could  gather  his  wits,  a  stout  woman,  with  a 
checked  apron  in  her  hand,  rushed  out  of  the  bun 
galow  door,  looked  about,  saw  him,  and  waved  the 
apron  like  a  flag. 

"  Hi !  "  she  screamed.  "  Hi,  you  !  Mr.  Light- 
houseman  !  come  quick  I  do  please  come  here  quick 
and  help  us!  " 

There  was  but  one  thing  to  do,  and  Brown  did 
it  instinctively.  He  raced  through  the  beach  grass, 
down  the  hill,  in  obedience  to  the  call.  As  he  ran, 
he  wondered  who  on  earth  the  stout  woman  could 
be.  Seth  had  said  that  the  artists  did  their  own 
housekeeping. 

u  Hurry  up !  "  shrieked  the  stout  woman,  danc 
ing  an  elephantine  fandango  in  front  of  the  bunga 
low.  "  Come  on!  " 

To  run  around  the  shore  line  of  the  cove  would 
have  taken  a  good  deal  of  time.  However,  had  the 
tide  been  at  flood  there  would  have  been  no  other 
way — excepting  by  boat — to  reach  the  cottage. 
But  the  tide  was  out,  and  the  narrowest  portion  of 
the  creek,  the  stream  connecting  the  cove  with  the 
ocean,  was  but  knee  deep.  Through  the  water 

145 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

splashed  the  substitute  assistant  and  clambered  up 
the  bank  beyond. 

"  Quick!  "  screamed  the  woman.  "  They'll  eat 
us  alive !  " 

"Who?    What?"  panted  Brown. 

"  Wasps  !  They're  in  there  !  The  room's  full 
of  'em.  If  there's  one  thing  on  earth  I'm  scart  of, 
it's  .  .  .  Don't  stop  to  talk !  Go  in!" 

She  indicated  the  door  of  a  room  adjoining  the 
living  room  of  the  little  cottage.  From  behind  the 
door  came  sounds  of  upsetting  furniture  and  sharp 
slaps.  Evidently  the  artists  were  having  a  lively 
time.  But  they  must  be  curious  chaps  to  be  afraid 
of  wasps.  Brown  opened  the  door  and  entered, 
partly  of  his  own  volition,  partly  because  he  was 
pushed  by  the  stout  woman.  Then  he  gasped  in 
astonishment. 

The  wasps  were  there,  dozens  of  them,  and  they 
had  built  a  nest  in  the  upper  corner  of  the  room. 
But  they  were  not  the  astonishing  part  of  the  pic 
ture.  A  young  woman  was  there,  also;  a  young 
woman  with  dark  hair  and  eyes,  the  sleeves  of  a 
white  shirtwaist  rolled  above  her  elbows,  and  a 
wet  towel  in  her  right  hand.  She  was  skipping 
lightly  about  the  room,  slapping  frantically  at  the 
humming  insects. 

146 


NEIGHBORS    AND  "WASPS 

"  Mrs.  Bascom,"  she  panted,  "  don't  stand  there 
screaming.  Get  another  towel  and— 

Then  she  turned  and  saw  Brown.  For  an  instant 
she,  too,  seemed  astonished.  But  only  for  an  in 
stant. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you  came!  "  she  exclaimed. 
"  Here!  take  this!  you  must  hit  quick  and  hard." 

"  This  "  was  the  towel.  The  assistant  took  it 
mechanically.  The  young  lady  did  not  wait  to  give 
further  orders.  She  rushed  out  of  the  room  and 
shut  the  door.  Brown  was  alone  with  the  wasps, 
and  they  were  lively  company.  When,  at  last,  the 
battle  was  over,  the  last  wasp  was  dead,  the  nest 
was  a  crumpled  gray  heap  over  in  the  corner,  and 
the  assistant's  brow  was  ornamented  with  four  red 
and  smarting  punctures,  which  promised  to  shortly 
become  picturesque  and  painful  lumps.  Rubbing 
these  absently  with  one  hand,  and  bearing  the 
towel  in  the  other,  he  opened  the  door  and  stepped 
out  into  the  adjoining  room. 

The  two  women  were  awaiting  him.  He  found 
them  standing  directly  in  front  of  him  as  he 
emerged. 

"Have  you — have  you  killed  them?"  begged 
the  younger  of  the  pair. 

"  Be  they  all  dead?  "  demanded  the  other. 

147 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

Brown  nodded  solemnly.  "  I  guess  so,"  he  said. 
"  They  seem  to  be." 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad!  "  cried  the  dark  haired  girl. 
"  I'm — we — are  so  much  obliged  to  you." 

"  If  there's  any  critters  on  earth,"  declared  the 
stout  woman,  "  that  I  can't  stand,  it's  wasps  and 
hornets  and  such.  Mice,  I  don't  mind " 

"  I  do,"  interrupted  her  companion  with  empha 
sis. 

"  But  when  I  walked  into  that  room  and  seen 
that  nest  in  the  corner  I  was  pretty  nigh  knocked 
over — and,"  she  added,  "  it  takes  consider'ble  to 
do  that  to  me." 

The  assistant  looked  at  her.  '  Yes,"  he  said, 
absently,  "  I  should  think  it  might.  That  is,  I 
mean — I — I  beg  your  pardon." 

He  paused  and  wiped  his  forehead  with  the 
towel.  The  young  lady  burst  into  a  peal  of  laugh 
ter,  in  which  the  stout  woman  joined.  The  laugh 
was  so  infectious  that  even  Brown  was  obliged  to 
smile. 

"  I  apologize,"  he  stammered.  "  I  didn't  mean 
that  exactly  as  it  sounded.  I'm  not  responsible 
mentally — yet — I  guess." 

"  I  don't  wonder."  It  was  the  stout  woman  who 
answered.  The  girl  had  turned  away  and  was 

148 


NEIGHBORS   AND    WASPS 

looking  out  the  window;  her  shoulders  shook.  "  I 
shouldn't  think  you  would  be.  Hauled  in  bodily, 
as  you  might  say,  and  shut  up  in  a  room  to  fight 
wasps !  And  by  folks  you  never  saw  afore  and 
don't  know  from  Adam  !  You  needn't  apologize. 
I'd  forgive  you  if  you  said  somethin'  a  good  deal 
worse'n  that.  I'm  long  past  the  age  where  I'm 
sensitive  about  my  weight,  thank  goodness." 

"  And  we  are  so  much  obliged  to  you."  The 
girl  was  facing  him  once  more,  and  she  was  serious, 
though  the  corners  of  her  mouth  still  twitched. 
'  The  whole  affair  is  perfectly  ridiculous,"  she  said, 
"  but  Mrs.  Bascom  was  frightened  and  so  was  I — 
when  I  had  time  to  realize  it.  Thank  you  again. 'r 

'  You're  quite  welcome,  I'm  sure.  No  trouble 
at  all." 

The  assistant  turned  to  go.  His  brain  was  be 
ginning  to  regain  a  little  of  its  normal  poise,  and 
he  was  dimly  conscious  that  he  had  been  absent 
from  duty  quite  long  enough. 

"  Maybe  you'd  like  to  know  who  'tis  you've 
helped,"  observed  the  stout  woman.  "  And,  con- 
siderin'  that  we're  likely  to  be  next-door  neighbors 
for  a  spell,  I  cal'late  introductions  are  the  proper 
thing.  My  name's  Bascom.  I'm  housekeeper  for 
Miss  Ruth  Graham.  This  is  Miss  Graham." 

11  H9 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

The  young  lady  offered  a  hand.    Brown  took  it. 

"  Graham  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  Where  ?  "  Then, 
remembering  a  portion  of  what  Seth  had  told  him, 
he  added,  "  I  see!  the — the  artist?  " 

"  My  brother  is  an  artist.  He  and  his  friend, 
Mr.  Hamilton,  own  this  bungalow.  They  are 
abroad  this  summer,  and  I  am  going  to  camp  here 
for  a  few  weeks — Mrs.  Bascom  and  I.  I  paint  a 
little,  too,  but  only  for  fun." 

Brown  murmured  a  conventionality  concerning 
his  delight  at  meeting  the  pair,  and  once  more 
headed  for  the  door.  But  Mrs.  Bascom's  curiosity 
would  not  permit  him  to  escape  so  easily. 

"  I  thought,"  she  said,  "  when  I  see  you  standin' 
over  there  by  the  lights,  that  you  must  be  one  of 
the  keepers.  Not  the  head  keeper — I  knew  you 
wa'n't  him — but  an  assistant,  maybe.  But  I  guess 
you're  only  a  visitor,  Mister — Mister ?" 

"  Brown." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Brown.  I  guess  you  ain't  no  keeper, 
are  you?  " 

"  I  am  the  assistant  keeper  at  present.    Yes." 

"You  don't  say!"  Mrs.  Bascom  looked  sur 
prised.  So,  too,  did  Miss  Graham.  "  You  don't 
look  like  a  lighthouse  keeper,"  continued  the 
former.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  your  clothes !  "  notic- 

150 


NEIGHBORS   AND   WASPS 

ing  the  young  man's  embarrassed  glance  at  his  wet 
and  far  from  immaculate  garments.  "  I  mean  the 
way  you  talk  and  act.  You  ain't  been  here  long, 
have  you?  " 

"  No." 

"  Just  come  this  summer?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  thought  so.    You  ain't  a  Cape  Codder?  " 

"  No." 

"  I  was  sure  you  wa'n't.  Where  do  you  come 
from?" 

Brown  hesitated.  Miss  Graham,  noticing  his 
hesitation,  hastened  to  end  the  inquisition. 

"  Mr.  Brown  can't  stop  to  answer  questions, 
Mrs.  Bascom,"  she  said.  "  I'm  sure  he  wants  to 
get  back  to  his  work.  Good  morning,  Mr.  Brown. 
No  doubt  we  shall  see  each  other  often,  being  the 
only  neighbors  in  sight.  Call  again — do.  I  sol 
emnly  promise  that  you  shall  have  to  fight  no  more 
wasps." 

"  Say !  "  The  stout  woman  took  a  step  forward. 
"  Speakin'  of  wasps  .  .  .  stand  still  a  minute, 
Mr.  Brown,  won't  you.  What's  them  lumps  on 
your  forehead?  Why,  I  do  believe  you've  been 
bit.  You  have,  sure  and  sartin !  " 

Miss  Graham  was  very  much  concerned.    "  Oh, 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

no!"  she  exclaimed;  "I  hope  not.  Let  me 
see." 

"  No,  indeed!  "  The  assistant  was  on  the  step 
by  this  time  and  moving  rapidly.  "  Nothing  at  all. 
No  consequence.  Good  morning." 

He  almost  ran  down  the  hill  and  crossed  the 
creek  at  the  wading  place.  As  he  splashed  through, 
the  voice  of  the  housekeeper  reached  his  ears. 

"  Cold  mud's  the  best  thing,"  she  screamed. 
"  Put  it  on  thick.  It  takes  out  the  smart.  Good 
and  thick,  mind!  " 

For  the  next  hour  or  two  the  lightkeeper's  helper 
moved  about  his  household  tasks  in  a  curious  frame 
of  mind.  He  was  thoroughly  angry — or  thought 
he  was — and  very  much  disturbed.  Neighbors  of 
any  kind  were  likely  to  be  a  confounded  nuisance, 
but  two  women !  Heavens !  And  the  stout 
woman  was  sure  to  be  running  in  for  calls  and  to 
borrow  things.  As  for  the  other,  she  seemed  a 
nice  girl  enough,  but  he  never  wanted  to  see  an 
other  girl,  nice  or  otherwise.  Her  eyes  were  pretty, 
so  was  her  hair,  but  what  of  it?  Oh,  hang  the 
luck!  Just  here  he  banged  his  swollen  forehead 
on  the  sharp  edge  of  the  door,  and  found  relief  in 
profanity. 

Seth  Atkins  was  profane,  also,  when  he  heard 
152 


NEIGHBORS   AND    WASPS 

the  news.  Brown  said  nothing  until  his  superior 
discovered  with  his  own  eyes  that  the  bungalow 
was  open.  Then,  in  answer  to  the  lightkeeper's 
questions,  came  the  disclosure  of  the  truth. 

"  Women  !  "  roared  Seth.  "  You  say  there's 
two  women  goin'  to  live  there  ?  By  Judas !  I  don't 
believe  it !  " 

"  Go  and  see  for  yourself,  then,"  was  the 
brusque  answer. 

"  I  sha'n't,  neither.    Who  told  you?  " 

"  They  did." 

"  They  did?    Was  you  there  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  What  for?  I  thought  you  swore  never  to  go 
nigh  a  woman  again." 

"  I  did,  but — well,  it  wasn't  my  fault.     I " 

"Yes?    Goon." 

"  I  went  because  I  couldn't  help  myself.  Went 
to  help  some  one  else,  in  fact.  I  expected  to  find 
Graham  and  that  other  artist.  But " 

"  Well,  go  on." 

"  I  was  stung,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  gloomily,  and 
rubbed  his  forehead. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  BUNGALOW  GIRL 

DURING  the  following  day  the  occupants 
of  the  lightkeeper's  dwelling  saw  little 
or  nothing  of  the  newcomers  at  the 
bungalow.  Brown,  his  forehead  resembling  a 
section  of  a  relief  map  of  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains,  remained  indoors  as  much  as  possible,  work 
ing  when  there  was  anything  to  do,  and  read 
ing  back-number  magazines  when  there  was  not. 
Seth  went,  as  usual,  to  his  room  soon  after 
noon.  His  slumbers  must,  however,  have  been  fit 
ful  ones,  for  several  times  the  substitute  assistant, 
turning  quickly,  saw  the  bedroom  door  swing  si 
lently  shut.  The  third  time  that  this  happened  he 
ran  to  the  door  and  threw  it  open  in  season  to  catch 
Mr.  Atkins  in  an  undignified  dive  for  the  bed.  A 
tremendous  snore  followed  the  dive.  The  young 
man  regarded  him  in  silence  for  a  few  moments, 
during  which  the  snores  continued.  Then  he  shook 
his  head. 

154 


THE    BUNGALOW   GIRL 

"Humph!"  he  soliloquized;  "I  must  'phone 
for  the  doctor  at  once.  Either  the  doctor  or  the 
superintendent.  If  he  has  developed  that  habit, 
he  isn't  fit  for  this  job." 

He  turned  away.  The  slumberer  stirred  uneas 
ily,  rolled  over,  opened  one  eye,  and  sat  up. 

"  Hi !  "  he  called.  "  Come  back  here !  Where 
you  goin'  ?  " 

Brown  returned,  looking  surprised  and  anxious. 

"  Oh!  "  he  exclaimed,  "  are  you  awake?  " 

"  Course  I'm  awake  !  What  a  fool  question  that 
is.  Think  I'm  settin'  up  here  and  talkin'  in  my 
sleep?" 

"  Well,  I  didn't  know." 

;'  Why  didn't  you  know?  And,  see  here!  what 
did  you  mean  by  sayin'  you  was  goin'  to  'phone  the 
doctor  or  the  superintendent,  one  or  t'other?  Yes, 
you  said  it.  I  heard  you." 

"Oh,  no!  you  didn't." 

"  Tell  you  I  did.  Heard  you  with  my  own 
ears." 

"  But  how  could  you?    You  weren't  awake." 

"Course  I  was  awake!  Couldn't  have  heard 
you  unless  I  was,  could  I  ?  What  ails  you  ?  Them 
stings  go  clear  through  to  your  brains,  did  they?  " 

Again  Brown  shook  his  head. 

155 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  This  is  dreadful !  "  he  murmured.  "  He  walks 
in  his  sleep,  and  snores  when  he's  awake.  I  must 
call  the  doctor." 

"  What — what "     The  lightkeeper's  wrath 

was  interfering  with  his  utterance.  He  swung  his 
legs  over  the  side  of  the  bed  and  sputtered  incoher 
ently. 

"Be  calm,  Atkins,"  coaxed  the  assistant.  "Don't 
complicate  your  diseases  by  adding  heart  trouble. 
Three  times  today  I've  caught  you  peeping  at  me 
through  the  crack  of  that  door.  Within  fifteen 
seconds  of  the  last  peep  I  find  you  snoring.  There 
fore,  I  say " 

"  Aw,  belay !  I  was  only — only  just  lookin'  out 
to  see  what  time  it  was." 

"  But  you  must  have  done  it  in  your  sleep,  be 
cause " 

"  I  never.    I  was  wide  awake  as  you  be." 

"  But  why  did  you  snore?  You  couldn't  have 
fallen  asleep  between  the  door  and  the  bed.  And 
you  hadn't  quite  reached  the  bed  when  I  got  here." 

"I— I— I— Aw,  shut  up!" 

Brown  smiled  blandly.  ;'  I  will,"  he  said,  "  pro 
vided  you  promise  to  keep  this  door  shut  and  don't 
do  any  more  spying." 

"  Spyin'?     What  do  you  mean  by  that?  " 
156 


THE    BUNGALOW    GIRL 

"  Just  what  I  said.  You  and  I  had  a  discussion 
concerning  that  same  practice  when  I  fell  over  the 
bank  at  the  Slough  a  while  ago.  I  was  not  spying 
then,  but  you  thought  I  was,  and  you  didn't  like  it. 
Now  I  think  you  are,  and  /  don't  like  it." 

'  Wh — what — what  would  I  be  spyin'  on  you 
for?  Wh — what  reason  would  I  have  for  doin' 
it?" 

:'  No  good  reason;  because  I  have  no  intention 
of  visiting  our  new  neighbors — none  whatever. 
That  being  understood,  perhaps  you'll  shut  the 
door  and  keep  it  shut." 

Seth  looked  sheepish  and  guilty. 

'  Well,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's  reflection, 
"  I  beg  your  pardon.  But  I  couldn't  help  feelin' 
kind  of  uneasy.  I — I  ought  to  know  better,  I 
s'pose ;  but,  with  a  young,  good-lookin'  girl  landed 
unexpected  right  next  to  us,  I — I " 

"  How  did  you  know  she  was  good-looking?  I 
didn't  mention  her  looks." 

"  No,  you  didn't,  but — but  .  .  .  John 
Brown,  I've  been  young  myself,  and  I  know  that 
at  your  age  most  any  girl's  good-lookin'.  There  !  " 

He  delivered  this  bit  of  wisdom  with  emphasis 
and  a  savage  nod  of  the  head.  Brown  had  no  an 
swer  ready,  that  is,  no  relevant  answer. 

157 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  You  go  to  bed  and  shut  the  door,"  he  repeated, 
turning  to  go. 

"  All  right,  I  will.  But  don't  you  forget  our 
agreement." 

u  I  have  no  intention  of  forgetting  it." 

"  What  are  you  goin'  to  do?  " 

"Do?    What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean  what  are  you  goin'  to  do  now  that 
things  down  here's  changed,  and  you  and  me  ain't 
alone,  same  as  we  was?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  sha'n't  leave 
— clear  out." 

"  What?  Clear  out?  Run  away  and  leave  me 
alone  to — to  ...  By  time  !  I  didn't  think  you 
was  a  deserter." 

The      substitute      assistant      laughed      bitterly. 
'  You  needn't  worry,"  he  said.     "  I  couldn't  go 
far,  even  if  I  wanted  to.    I  haven't  any  money." 

'  That's  so."  Seth  was  evidently  relieved. 
"All  right,"  he  observed;  "don't  you  worry. 
'Twon't  be  but  a  couple  of  months  anyway,  and 
we'll  fight  it  through  together.  But  ain't  it  a 
shame  !  Ain't  it  an  everlastin'  shame  that  this  had 
to  happen  just  as  we'd  come  to  understand  each 
other  and  was  so  contented  and  friendly !  Well, 
there's  only  one  thing  to  do;  that's  to  make  the 

158 


THE    BUNGALOW   GIRL 

best  of  it  for  us  and  the  worst  for  them.  We'll 
keep  to  ourselves  and  pay  no  attention  to  'em  no 
more'n  if  they  wa'n't  there.  We'll  forget  'em 
altogether;  hey?  ...  I  say  we'll  forget  'em 
altogether,  won't  we?  " 

Brown's  answer  was  short  and  sharp. 

'  Yes,"  he  said,  and  slammed  the  door  behind 
him.  Seth  slowly  shook  his  head  before  he  laid 
it  on  the  pillow.  He  was  not  entirely  easy  in  his 
mind,  even  yet. 

However,  there  was  no  more  spying,  and  the 
lightkeeper  did  not  mention  the  bungalow  tenants 
when  he  appeared  at  supper  time.  After  the  meal 
he  bolted  to  the  lights,  and  was  on  watch  in  the 
tower  when  his  helper  retired. 

Early  the  next  afternoon  Brown  descended  the 
path  to  the  boathouse.  He  had  omitted  his  swim 
the  day  before.  Now,  however,  he  intended  to 
have  it.  Simply  because  those  female  nuisances 
had  seen  fit  to  intrude  where  they  had  no  business 
was  no  reason  why  he  should  resign  all  pleasure. 
He  gave  a  quick  glance  upward  at  the  opposite 
bank  as  he  reached  the  wharf.  There  was  no  sign 
of  life  about  the  bungalow. 

He  entered  the  boathouse,  undressed,  and 
donned  his  bathing  suit.  In  a  few  minutes  he  was 

159 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

ready,  and,  emerging  upon  the  wharf,  walked 
briskly  back  along  the  shore  of  the  creek  to  where 
it  widened  into  the  cove.  There  he  plunged  in, 
and  was  soon  luxuriating  in  the  cool,  clear  water. 

He  swam  with  long,  confident  strokes,  those  of 
a  practiced  swimmer.  This  was  worth  while.  It 
was  the  one  place  where  he  could  forget  that  he 
was  no  longer  the  only  son  of  a  wealthy  father, 
heir  to  a  respected  name — which  was  not  Brown — 
a  young  man  with  all  sorts  of  brilliant  prospects; 
could  forget  that  he  was  now  a  disinherited  vaga 
bond,  a  loafer  who  had  been  unable  to  secure  a  re 
spectable  position,  an  outcast.  He  swam  and  dove 
and  splashed,  rejoicing  in  his  strength  and  youth 
and  the  freedom  of  all  outdoors. 

Then,  as  he  lay  lazily  paddling  in  deep  water,  he 
heard  the  rattle  of  gravel  on  the  steep  bank  of  the 
other  side  of  the  cove.  Looking  up,  he  saw,  to  his 
huge  disgust,  a  female  figure  in  a  trim  bathing  suit 
descending  the  bluff  from  the  bungalow.  It  was 
the  girl  who  had  left  him  to  fight  the  wasps.  Her 
dark  hair  was  covered  with  a  jauntily  tied  colored 
handkerchief,  and,  against  the  yellow  sand  of  the 
bluff,  she  made  a  very  pretty  picture.  Not  that 
Brown  was  interested,  but  she  did,  nevertheless. 

She  saw  him  and  waved  a  hand.  "  Good  morn- 
160 


THE    BUNGALOW    GIRL 

ing,11  she  called.     "  Beautiful  day  for  a  swim,  isn't 
it?" 

'  Yes,"  growled  the  young  man,  brusquely.  He 
turned  and  began  to  swim  in  the  opposite  direction, 
up  the  cove.  The  girl  looked  after  him,  raised  a 
puzzled  eyebrow,  and  then,  with  a  shrug,  waded 
into  the  water.  The  next  time  the  assistant  looked 
at  her,  she  was  swimming  with  long,  sweeping 
strokes  down  the  narrow  creek  to  the  bend  and  the 
deep  hole  at  the  end  of  the  wharf.  Round  that 
bend  and  through  that  hole  the  tide  whirled,  like  a 
rapid,  out  into  the  miniature  bay  behind  Black 
Man's  Point.  It  was  against  that  tide  that  Seth 
Atkins  had  warned  him. 

And  the  girl  was  swimming  directly  toward  the 
dangerous  narrows.  Brown  growled  an  exclama 
tion  of  disgust.  He  had  no  mind  to  continue  the 
acquaintance,  and  yet  he  couldn't  permit  her  to  do 
that. 

"  Miss  Graham !  "  he  called.  "  Oh,  Miss  Gra 
ham!" 

She  heard  him,  but  did  not  stop. 

"Yes?"  she  called  in  answer,  continuing  to 
swim.  "What  is  it?  " 

"  You  mustn't — "  shouted  Brown.  Then  he 
remembered  that  he  must  not  shout.  Shouting 

161 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

might  awaken  the  lightkeeper,  and  the  latter  would 
misunderstand  the  situation,  of  course.  So  he  cut 
his  warning  to  one  word. 

"Wait!"  he  called,  and  began  swimming 
toward  her.  She  did  not  come  to  meet  him,  but 
merely  ceased  swimming  and  turned  on  her  back 
to  float.  And,  floating,  the  tide  would  carry  her 
on  almost  as  rapidly  as  if  she  assisted  it.  That 
tide  did  not  need  any  assistance.  Brown  swung  on 
his  side  and  settled  into  the  racing  stroke,  the 
stroke  which  had  won  him  cups  at  the  athletic 
club. 

He  reached  her  in  a  time  so  short  that  she  was 
surprised  into  an  admiring  comment. 

"  Oh!  "  she  exclaimed,  "  you  can  swim!  " 

He  did  not  thank  her  for  the  compliment. 
There  was  no  time  for  that,  even  if  he  had  felt 
like  it. 

"  You  shouldn't  be  here,"  he  said  sharply. 

She  looked  at  him. 

l<  Why,  what  do  you  mean?  "  she  demanded. 

"  It  isn't  safe.  A  little  farther,  and  the  tide 
would  carry  you  out  to  sea.  Come  back,  back  up 
to  the  cove  at  once." 

He  expected  her  to  ask  more  questions,  but  she 
did  not.  Instead  she  turned  and  struck  out  in  si- 

162 


THE    BUNGALOW    GIRL 

lence.  Against  the  tide,  even  there,  the  pull  was 
tremendous. 

"Shall  I  help  you?  "he  asked. 

"  No,  I  can  make  it." 

And  she  did.  It  was  his  turn  to  be  surprised 
into  admiration. 

"  By  Jove !  "  he  panted,  as  they  swung  into  the 
quiet  water  of  the  cove  and  stood  erect  in  the  shal 
lows,  "  that  was  great !  You  are  a  good  swimmer." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  answered,  breathlessly.  "  It 
was  a  tug,  wasn't  it?  Thank  you  for  warning  me. 
Now  tell  me  about  the  dangerous  places,  please." 

He  told  her,  repeating  Seth's  tales  of  the  tide's 
strength. 

"  But  it  is  safe  enough  here?  "  she  asked. 

"Oh,  yes!  perfectly  safe  anywhere  this  side  of 
the  narrow  part — the  creek." 

"  I'm  so  glad.  This  water  is  glorious,  and  I 
began  to  be  afraid  I  should  have  to  give  it  up." 

"  The  creek,  and  even  the  bay  itself  are  safe 
enough  at  flood,"  he  went  on.  "  I  often  go  there 
then.  When  the  tide  is  coming  in  it  is  all  right 
even  for " 

He  paused.  She  finished  the  sentence  for  him. 
"  Even  for  a  girl,  you  were  going  to  say."  She 
waded  forward  to  where  the  shoal  ended  and  the 

163 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

deeper  part  began.     There  she  turned  to  look  at 
him  over  her  shoulder. 

"  I'm  going  to  that  beach  over  there,"  she  said, 
pointing  across  the  cove.  "  Do  you  want  to 
race?" 

Without  waiting  to  see  whether  he  did  or  not, 
she  struck  out  for  the  beach.  And,  without  stop 
ping  to  consider  why  he  did  it,  the  young  man  fol 
lowed  her. 

The  race  was  not  so  one-sided.  Brown  won  it  by 
some  yards,  but  he  had  to  work  hard.  His  com 
petitor  did  not  give  up  when  she  found  herself 
falling  behind,  but  was  game  to  the  end. 

"  Well,"  she  gasped,  "  you  beat  me,  didn't  you? 
I  never  could  get  that  side  stroke,  and  it's  ever  so 
much  faster." 

"  It's  simple  enough.  Just  a  knack.  I'll  teach 
you  if  you  like." 

14  Will  you  ?    That's  splendid." 

"  You  are  the  strongest  swimmer,  Miss  Graham, 
for  a  girl,  that  I  ever  saw.  You  must  have  prac 
ticed  a  great  deal." 

"  Yes,  Horace — my  brother — taught  me.  He 
is  a  splendid  swimmer,  one  of  the  very  best." 

"  Horace  Graham  ?  Why,  you  don't  mean  Hor 
ace  Graham  of  the  Harvard  Athletic?  " 

164 


THE    BUNGALOW    GIRL 

"  Yes,  I  do.  He  is  my  brother.  But  how  .  .  ... 
Do  you  know  him?  " 

The  surprise  in  her  tone  was  evident.  Brown, 
bit  his  lip.  He  remembered  that  Cape  Cod  light- 
keepers'  helpers  were  not,  as  a  usual  thing,  sup 
posed  to  be  widely  acquainted  in  college  athletic 
circles. 

"  I  have  met  him,"  he  stammered. 

"  But  where — "  she  began;  and  then,  "  why,  of 
course!  you  met  him  here.  I  forgot  that  he  has 
been  your  neighbor  for  three  summers." 

The  assistant  had  forgotten  it,  too,  but  he  was 
thankful  for  the  reminder. 

"  Yes.  Yes,  certainly,"  he  said.  She  regarded 
him  with  a  puzzled  look. 

"  It's  odd  he  didn't  mention  you,"  she  observed. 
"  He  has  told  me  a  great  deal  about  the  bungalow, 
and  the  sea  views,  and  the  loneliness  and  the 
quaintness  of  it  all.  That  was  what  made  me  wish 
to  spend  a  month  down  here  and  experience  it  my 
self.  And  he  has  often  spoken,"  with  an  irrepres 
sible  smile,  "  of  your — of  the  lightkeeper,  Mr.  At 
kins.  That  is  his  name,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  want  to  meet  him.  Horace  said  he  was — 
well,  rather  odd,  but,  when  you  knew  him,  a  fine 
12  165 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

fellow  and  full  of  dry  humor.  I'm  sure  I  should 
like  him." 

Brown  smiled,  also — and  broadly.  He  mentally 
pictured  Seth's  reception  of  the  news  that  he  was 
"  liked  "  by  the  young  lady  across  the  cove.  And 
then  it  occurred  to  him,  with  startling  suddenness, 
that  he  had  been  conversing  very  familiarly  with 
that  young  lady,  notwithstanding  the  solemn  inter 
change  of  vows  between  the  lightkeeper  and  him 
self. 

"I  must  be  going,"  he  said  hastily;  "good 
morning,  Miss  Graham." 

He  waded  to  the  shore  and  strode  rapidly  back 
toward  the  boathouse.  His  companion  called  after 
him. 

"  I  shall  expect  you  to-morrow  afternoon,"  she 
said.  '  You've  promised  to  teach  me  that  side 
stroke,  remember." 

Brown  dressed  in  a  great  hurry  and  climbed  the 
path  to  the  lights  at  the  double  quick.  All  was 
safe  and  serene  in  the  house,  and  he  breathed  more 
freely.  Atkins  was  sound  asleep,  really  asleep,  in 
the  bedroom,  and  when  he  emerged  he  was  evi 
dently  quite  unaware  of  his  helper's  unpremedi 
tated  treason.  Brown's  conscience  pricked  him, 
however,  and  he  went  to  bed  that  night  vowing 

166 


THE    BUNGALOW    GIRL 

over  and  over  that  he  would  be  more  careful  there 
after.  He  would  take  care  not  to  meet  the  Graham 
girl  again.  Having  reached  this  decision,  there  re 
mained  nothing  but  to  put  her  out  of  his  mind  en 
tirely;  which  he  succeeded  in  doing  at  a  quarter 
after  eleven,  when  he  fell  asleep.  Even  then  she 
was  not  entirely  absent,  for  he  dreamed  a  ridicu 
lous  dream  about  her. 

Next  day  he  did  not  go  for  a  swim,  but  remained 
in  the  house.  Seth,  at  supper,  demanded  to  know 
what  ailed  him. 

"  You're  as  mum  as  the  oldest  inhabitant  of  a 
deaf  and  dumb  asylum,"  was  the  lightkeeper's 
comment.  "  And  ugly  as  a  bull  in  fly  time.  What 
ails  you?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"Humph!  better  take  somethin'  for  it,  seems 
to  me.  Little  '  Stomach  Balm,'  hey?  No?  Well, 
go  to  bed!  Your  room's  enough  sight  better'n 
your  company  just  now." 

The  helper's  ill  nature  was  in  evidence  again 
at  breakfast  time.  Seth  endeavored  to  joke  him 
out  of  it,  but,  not  succeeding,  and  finding  his 
best  jokes  received  with  groans  instead  of  laugh 
ter,  gave  it  up  in  disgust  and  retired.  The  young 
man  cleared  the  table,  piled  the  dishes  in  the 

167 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

sink,  heated  a  kettleful  of  water  and  began  the 
day's  drudgery,  drudgery  which  he  once  thought 
was  fun. 

Why  had  he  had  the  ill  luck  to  fall  overboard 
from  that  steamer.  Or  why  didn't  he  drown  when 
he  did  fall  overboard?  Then  he  would  have  been 
comfortably  dead,  at  all  events.  Why  hadn't  he 
stayed  in  New  York  or  Boston  or  somewhere  and 
kept  on  trying  for  a  position,  for  work — any  kind 
of  work?  He  might  have  starved  while  trying, 
but  people  who  were  starving  were  self-respecting, 
and  when  they  met  other  people — for  instance,  sis 
ters  of  fellows  they  used  to  know — had  nothing  to 
be  ashamed  of  and  needn't  lie — unless  they  wanted 
to.  He  was  a  common  loafer,  under  a  false  name, 
down  on  a  sandheap  washing  dishes.  At  this  point 
he  dropped  one  of  the  dishes — a  plate — and  broke 
it. 

"  D — n !  "  observed  John  Brown,  under  his 
breath,  but  with  enthusiasm. 

He  stooped  to  pick  up  the  fragments  of  the  plate, 
and,  rising  once  more  to  an  erect  position,  found 
himself  facing  Miss  Ruth  Graham.  She  was 
standing  in  the  doorway. 

u  Don't  mind  me,  please,"  she  said.  "  No  doubt 
I  should  feel  the  same  way  if  it  were  my  plate." 

168 


Don't  mind   me,   please,1   she  said." 


THE    BUNGALOW    GIRL 

The  young  man's  first  move,  after  recovery,  was 
to  make  sure  that  the  door  between  the  kitchen 
and  the  hall  leading  to  the  lightkeeper's  bedroom 
was  shut.  It  was,  fortunately.  The  young  lady 
watched  him  in  silence,  though  her  eyes  were  shin 
ing. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Brown,"  she  observed, 
gravely. 

The  assistant  murmured  a  good  morning,  from 
force  of  habit. 

'  There's  another  piece  you  haven't  picked  up," 
continued  the  visitor,  pointing. 

Brown  picked  up  the  piece. 

"  Is  Mr.  Atkins  in?  "  inquired  the  girl. 

"  Yes,  he's— he's  in." 

"  May  I  see  him,  please?  " 

"  I— I " 

"  If  he's  busy,  I  can  wait."  She  seated  her 
self  in  a  chair.  "  Don't  let  me  interrupt  you," 
she  continued.  "  You  were  busy,  too,  weren't 
you?" 

"  I  was  washing  dishes,"  declared  Brown,  sav 
agely. 

"Oh!" 

'  Yes.  Washing  and  sweeping  and  doing  scrub 
woman's  work  are  my  regular  employments." 

169 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  Indeed !  Then  I'm  just  in  time  to  help.  Is 
this  the  dish  towel?  "  regarding  it  dubiously. 

"  It  is,  but  I  don't  need  any  help,  thank  you." 

"  Of  course  you  do.  Everyone  is  glad  to  be 
helped  at  doing  dishes.  I  may  as  well  make 
myself  useful  while  I'm  waiting  for  Mr.  At 
kins." 

She  picked  up  a  platter  and  proceeded  to  wipe 
it,  quite  as  a  matter  of  course.  Brown,  swearing 
inwardly,  turned  fiercely  to  the  suds. 

"  Did  you  wish  to  see  Atkins  on  particular  busi 
ness?"  he  asked,  a  moment  later. 

"Oh,  no;  I  wanted  to  make  his  acquaintance, 
that's  all.  Horace  told  me  so  many  interesting 
things  about  him.  By  the  way,  was  it  last  sum 
mer,  or  the  summer  before,  that  you  met  my 
brother  here?  " 

No  answer.  Miss  Graham  repeated  her  ques 
tion.  "  Was  it  last  summer  or  the  summer  be 
fore?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh — er — I  don't  remember.  Last  summer,  I 
think." 

"  Why,  you  must  remember.  How  could  any 
one  forget  anything  that  happened  down  here? 
So  few  things  do  happen,  I  should  say.  So  you 
met  him  last  summer?  " 

170 


THE    BUNGALOW    GIRL 

"  Yes." 

"  Hum  !  that's  odd." 

"  Shall  I  call  Atkins?     He's  in  his  room." 

"  I  say  it  is  odd,  because,  when  Mrs.  Bascom 
and  I  first  met  you,  you  told  us  this  was  your  first 
summer  here." 

There  wasn't  any  answer  to  this;  at  least  the  as 
sistant  could  think  of  none  at  the  moment. 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  call  Atkins?"  he 
asked,  sharply.  "  He's  asleep,  but  I  can  wake 
him." 

"  Oh !  he's  asleep.  Now  I  understand  why  you 
whisper  even  when  you  sw —  that  is,  when  you 
break  a  plate.  You  were  afraid  of  waking  him. 
How  considerate  you  are." 

Brown  put  down  the  dishcloth.  "  It  isn't  alto 
gether  consideration  for  him — or  for  myself,"  he 
said  grimly.  "  I  didn't  care  to  wake  him  unless 
you  took  the  responsibility." 

"Why?" 

"  Because,  Miss  Graham,  Seth  Atkins  took  the 
position  of  lightkeeper  here  almost  for  the  sole 
reason  that  no  women  ever  came  here.  Mr.  At 
kins  is  a  woman-hater  of  the  most  rabid  type.  I'll 
wake  him  up  if  you  wish,  but  I  won't  be  responsible 
for  the  consequences." 

171 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

The  young  lady  stared  at  him  in  surprise,  de 
lighted  surprise  apparently,  judging  by  the  expres 
sion  of  her  face. 

"A  woman-hater?"  she  repeated.  "Is  he 
really?" 

"  He  is."  Mr.  Brown  neglected  to  add  that  he 
also  had  declared  himself  a  member  of  the  same 
fraternity.  Perhaps  he  thought  it  was  not  neces 
sary. 

"A  woman-hater!"  Miss  Graham  fairly  bub 
bled  with  mischievous  joy.  "  Oh,  jolly!  now  I'm 
crazy  to  meet  him !  " 

The  assistant  moved  toward  the  hall  door. 
"  Very  good!  "  he  observed  with  grim  determina 
tion.  "  I  think  he'll  cure  your  lunacy." 

His  hand  was  outstretched  toward  the  latch, 
when  the  young  lady  spoke  again. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  she  said.  "  Perhaps  I  had 
better  not  wake  him  now." 

"  Just  as  you  say.  The  pleasure  is — or  will  be 
— entirely  mine,  I  assure  you." 

"  No — o.  On  the  whole,  I  think  I'll  wait  until 
later.  I  may  call  again.  Good  morning." 

She  moved  across  the  threshold.  Then,  stand 
ing  on  the  mica  slab  which  was  the  step  to  the 
kitchen  door,  she  turned  to  say: 

172 


THE    BUNGALOW    GIRL 

'  You  didn't  swim  yesterday." 

"  No — o.     I — I  was  busy." 

"  I  see." 

She  paused,  as  if  expecting  him  to  say  something 
further  on  the  subject.  He  was  silent.  Her  man 
ner  changed. 

"  Good  morning,"  she  said,  coldly,  and  walked 
off.  The  assistant  watched  her  as  she  descended 
the  path  to  the  cove,  but  she  did  not  once  look 
back.  Brown  threw  himself  into  a  chair.  He  had 
never  hated  anyone  as  thoroughly  as  he  hated  him 
self  at  the  moment. 

'  What  a  cheerful  liar  she  must  think  I  am," 
he  reflected.  "  She  caught  me  in  that  fool  yarn 
about  meeting  her  brother  here  last  summer;  and 
now,  after  deliberately  promising  to  teach  her  that 
stroke,  I  don't  go  near  her.  What  a  miserable  liar 
she  must  think  I  am !  And  I  guess  I  am.  By 
George,  I  can't  be  such  a  cad.  I've  got  to  make 
good  somehow.  I  must  give  her  one  lesson.  I 
must." 

The  tide  served  for  bathing  about  three  that 
afternoon.  At  ten  minutes  before  that  hour  the 
substitute  assistant  keeper  of  Eastboro  Twin- 
Lights  tiptoed  silently  to  the  bedroom  of  his  su 
perior  and  peeped  in.  Seth  was  snoring  peacefully. 

173 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

Brown  stealthily  withdrew.  At  three,  precisely, 
he  emerged  from  the  boathouse  on  the  wharf,  clad 
in  his  bathing  suit. 

Fifteen  minutes  after  three,  Seth  Atkins,  in  his 
stocking  feet  and  with  suspicion  in  his  eye,  crept 
along  the  path  to  the  edge  of  the  bluff.  Crouching 
behind  a  convenient  sand  dune  he  raised  his  head 
and  peered  over  it. 

Below  him  was  the  cove,  its  pleasant  waters  a 
smooth,  deep  blue,  streaked  and  bordered  with  pale 
green.  But  the  water  itself  did  not  interest  Seth. 
In  that  water  was  his  helper,  John  Brown,  of  no 
where  in  particular,  John  Brown,  the  hater  of  fe 
males,  busily  engaged  in  teaching  a  young  woman 
to  swim. 

Atkins  watched  this  animated  picture  for  some 
minutes.  Then,  carefully  crawling  back  up  to 
the  path  until  he  was  well  out  of  possible  sight 
from  the  cove,  he  rose  to  his  feet,  raised  both 
hands,  and  shook  their  clenched  fists  above  his 
head. 

"The  liar!"  grated  Mr.  Atkins,  between  his 
teeth.  "The  traitor!  The  young  blackguard! 
After  tellin'  me  that  he  ...  And  after  my 
doin'  everything  for  him  that  .  .  .  Oh,  by 
Judas,  wait !  only  wait  till  he  comes  back !  I'll 


THE    BUNGALOW    GIRL 

Tarn    him!      /'//    show    him!      Oh,    by    jiminy 
crimps!  " 

He  strode  toward  the  doorway  of  the  kitchen. 
There  he  stopped  short.  A  woman  was  seated  in 
the  kitchen  rocker;  a  stout  woman,  with  her  back 
toward  him.  The  room,  in  contrast  to  the  bright 
sunshine  without,  was  shadowy,  and  Seth,  for  an 
instant,  could  see  her  but  indistinctly.  However, 
he  knew  who  she  must  be — the  housekeeper  at  the 
bungalow — "  Basket  "  or  "  Biscuit  "  his  helper  had 
said  was  her  name,  as  near  as  he  could  remember  it. 
The  lightkeeper  ground  his  teeth.  Another  female  ! 
Well,  he  would  teach  this  one  a  few  things! 

He  stepped  across  the  threshold. 

"  Ma'am,"  he  began,  sharply,  "  perhaps  you'll 
tell  me  what  you " 

He  stopped.  The  stout  woman  had,  at  the 
sound  of  his  step,  risen  from  the  chair,  and  turned 
to  face  him.  And  now  she  was  staring  at  him, 
her  face  almost  as  white  as  the  stone-china  cups 
and  saucers  on  the  table. 

'  Why  .   .   .  why  .   .   .  Seth! "  she  gasped. 

The  lightkeeper  staggered  back  until  his  shoul 
ders  struck  the  doorpost. 

"Good  Lord!  "he  cried;  "good  .  .  .  Lord! 
Why — why — Emetine!  " 

175 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

For  over  a  minute  the  pair  stared  at  each  other, 
white  and  speechless.  Then  Mrs.  Bascom  hurried 
to  the  door,  darted  out,  and  fled  along  the  path 
around  the  cove  to  the  bungalow.  Atkins  did  not 
follow  her;  he  did  not  even  look  in  the  direction 
she  had  taken.  Instead,  he  collapsed  in  the  rock 
ing-chair  and  put  both  hands  to  his  head. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  BUNGALOW  WOMAN 

WHEN,  an  hour  later,  the  swimming 
teacher,  his  guilty  conscience  pricking 
him,  and  the  knowledge  of  having 
been  false  to  his  superior  strong  within  him,  came 
sneaking  into  the  kitchen,  he  was  startled  and 
horrified  to  find  the  lightkeeper  awake  and  dressed. 
Mentally  he  braced  himself  for  the  battery  of  em 
barrassing  questions  which,  he  felt  sure,  he  should 
have  to  answer.  It  might  be  that  he  must  face 
something  more  serious  than  questions.  Quite  pos 
sible  Seth,  finding  him  absent,  had  investigated — 
and  seen.  Well,  if  he  had,  then  he  had,  that  was 
all.  The  murder  would  be  out,  and  Eastboro 
Twin-Lights  would  shortly  be  shy  a  substitute  as 
sistant  keeper. 

But  there  were  no  embarrassing  questions.  At 
kins  scarcely  noticed  him.  Seated  in  the  rocker, 
he  looked  up  as  the  young  man  entered,  and  imme- 

177 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

diately  looked  down  again.  He  seemed  to  be  in 
a  sort  of  waking  dream  and  only  dimly  conscious 
of  happenings  about  him. 

"  Hello!  "  hailed  the  assistant,  with  an  assump 
tion  of  casual  cheerfulness. 

"  Hey?  Oh!  how  be  you?  "  was  Mr.  Atkins's 
reply. 

"  I've  been  for  my  dip,"  explained  Brown. 
"  The  water  was  fine  to-day." 

"Want  to  know!" 
'  You're  up  early,  aren't  you?  " 

"Hey?     Yes,  I  guess  likely  I  be." 

"What's  wrong?     Not  sick,  are  you?" 

"  No.  Course  I  ain't  sick.  Say !  "  Seth  seemed 
to  take  a  sudden  interest  in  the  conversation,  "  you 
come  straight  up  from  the  cove,  have  you?  " 

"Yes.     Why?" 

'  You  ain't  been  hangin'  around  outside  here, 
have  you  ?  " 

"Hanging  around  outside?  What  do  you 
mean?  " 

"  Nothin'.  Why  do  you  stand  there  starin'  at 
me  as  if  I  was  some  sort  of  dime  show  curiosity? 
Anything  queer  about  me?  " 

"  No.  I  didn't  know  I  was  staring."  The 
young  man  was  bewildered  by  this  strange  behav- 

178 


THE    BUNGALOW   WOMAN 

ior.  He  was  prepared  for  suspicion  concerning 
his  own  actions;  but  Seth  seemed  rather  to  be  de 
fending  himself  from  suspicion  on  the  part  of  his 
helper. 

"  Humph!  "  The  lightkeeper  looked  keenly  at 
him  for  a  moment.  Then  he  said: 

"  Well,  ain't  there  nothin'  to  do  but  stand 
around?  Gettin'  pretty  nigh  to  supper  time,  ain't 
it?  Put  the  kettle  on  and  set  the  table." 

It  was  not  supper  time,  but  Brown  obeyed  or 
ders.  Seth  went  to  cooking.  He  spoke  perhaps 
three  words  during  the  culinary  operations,  and  a 
half  dozen  more  during  the  meal,  of  which  he  ate 
scarcely  a  mouthful.  After  it  was  over,  he  put 
on  his  cap  and  went  out,  not  to  his  usual  lounging 
spot,  the  bench,  but  to  walk  a  full  half  mile  along 
the  edge  of  the  bluff  and  there  sit  in  the  seclusion 
of  a  clump  of  bayberry  bushes  and  gaze  stonily  at 
nothing  in  particular.  Here  he  remained  until  the 
deepening  dusk  reminded  him  that  it  was  time  the 
lights  were  burning.  Returning,  he  lit  the  lanterns 
and  sat  down  in  the  room  at  the  top  of  the  left- 
hand  tower  to  think,  and  think,  and  think. 

The  shadows  deepened;  the  last  flush  of  twilight 
faded  from  the  western  sky;  the  stars  came  out; 
night  and  the  black  silence  of  night  shrouded  East- 

179 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

boro  Twin-Lights.  The  clock  in  the  tower  room 
ticked  on  to  nine  and  then  to  ten.  Still  Seth  sat, 
a  huddled,  dazed  figure  in  the  camp  chair,  by  the 
great  lantern.  At  last  he  rose  and  went  out  on  the 
iron  balcony.  He  looked  down  at  the  buildings 
below  him;  they  were  black  shapes  without  a  glim 
mer.  Brown  had  evidently  gone  to  bed.  In  the 
little  stable  Joshua  thumped  the  side  of  his  stall 
once  or  twice — dreaming,  perhaps,  that  he  was 
again  pursued  by  the  fly-papered  Job — and  sub 
sided.  Atkins  turned  his  gaze  across  the  inlet.  In 
the  rear  window  of  the  bungalow  a  dim  light  still 
burned.  As  he  watched,  it  was  extinguished.  He 
groaned  aloud,  and,  with  his  arms  on  the  railing, 
thought  and  thought. 

Suddenly  he  heard  sounds,  faint,  but  perceptible, 
above  the  low  grumble  of  the  surf.  They  were 
repeated,  the  sounds  of  breaking  sticks,  as  if  some 
one  was  moving  through  the  briers  and  bushes  be 
yond  the  stable.  Some  one  was  moving  there,  com 
ing  along  the  path  from  the  upper  end  of  the  cove. 
Around  the  corner  of  the  stable  a  bulky  figure  ap 
peared.  It  came  on  until  it  stood  beneath  the  bal 
cony. 

"Seth,"  called  a  low  voice;  "Seth,  are  you 
there?" 

180 


THE    BUNGALOW    WOMAN 

For  a  moment  the  agitated  lightkeeper  could  not 
trust  his  voice  to  answer. 

"  Seth,"  repeated  the  voice;  "  Seth." 

The  figure  was  moving  off  in  the  direction  of 
the  other  tower.  Then  Seth  answered. 

"  Here — here  I  be,"  he  stammered,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper.  "  Who  is  it?  " 

He  knew  who  it  was,  perfectly  well ;  the  question 
was  quite  superfluous. 

"  It's  me,"  said  the  voice.  "  Let  me  in,  I've  got 
to  talk  to  you." 

Slowly,  scarcely  certain  that  this  was  not  a  part 
of  some  dreadful  nightmare,  Seth  descended  the 
iron  ladder  to  the  foot  of  the  tower,  dragged  his 
faltering  feet  to  the  door,  and  slowly  swung  it 
open.  The  bulky  figure  entered  instantly. 

"Shut  the  door,"  said  Mrs.  Bascom. 

"Hey?    What?"  stammered  Seth. 

"  I  say,  shut  that  door.  Hurry  up  !  Land  sakes, 
hurry!  Do  you  suppose  I  want  anybody  to  know 
I'm  here?" 

The  lightkeeper  closed  the  door.  The  clang  re 
verberated  through  the  tower  like  distant  thunder. 
The  visitor  started  nervously. 

"Mercy!"    she    exclaimed;    "what   a    racket! 
What  made  you  slam  it?  " 
13  181 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  Didn't,"  grumbled  Seth.  "  Any  kind  of  a 
noise  sounds  up  in  here." 

"  I  should  think  as  much.  It's  enough  to  wake 
the  dead." 

"Ain't  nobody  but  the  dead  to  wake  in  this 
place." 

'  Yes,  there  is;  there's  that  young  man  of  yours, 
that  Brown  one.  He  ain't  dead,  is  he?  " 

"  Humph !  he's  asleep,  and  that's  next  door  to 
dead — with  him." 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  of  it.  My  nerves  are  pretty 
steady  as  a  general  thing,  but  I  declare  I'm  all  of 
a  twitter  to-night — and  no  wonder.  It's  darker 
than  a  pocket  in  here.  Can't  we  have  a  light?  " 

Atkins  stumbled  across  the  stone  floor  and  took 
the  lantern  from  the  hook  by  the  stairs.  He  struck 
a  match,  and  it  went  out;  he  tried  another,  with  the 
same  result.  Mrs.  Bascom  fidgeted. 

"  Mercy  on  us!  "  she  cried;  "  what  does  ail  the 
thing?" 

Seth's  trembling  fingers  could  scarcely  hold  the 
third  match.  He  raked  it  across  the  whitewashed 
wall  and  broke  the  head  short  off. 

'Thunder  to  mighty!"  he  snarled,  under  his 
breath. 

"  But  what  does " 

182 


THE    BUNGALOW   WOMAN 

"  What  does?  What  do  you  s'pose?  You  ain't 
the  only  one  that's  got  nerves,  are  you?  " 

The  next  trial  was  successful,  and  the  lantern 
was  lighted.  With  it  in  his  hand,  he  turned  and 
faced  his  caller.  They  looked  at  each  other.  Mrs. 
Bascom  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  It  is  you,"  she  said.  "  I  couldn't  scarcely  be 
lieve  it.  It  is  really  you." 

Seth's  answer  was  almost  a  groan.  "  It's  you," 
he  said.  "  You — down  here." 

This  ended  the  conversation  for  another  minute. 
Then  the  lady  seemed  to  awake  to  the  realities  of 
the  situation. 

'  Yes,"  she  said,  "  it's  me — and  it's  you.  We're 
here,  both  of  us.  Though  why  on  earth  you  should 
be,  I  don't  know." 

"Me?  Me?  Why,  I  belong  here.  But  you— 
what  in  time  sent  you  here?  Unless,"  with  return 
ing  suspicion,  "  you  came  because  I " 

He  paused,  warned  by  the  expression  on  his  call 
er's  face. 

''  What  was  that?  "  she  demanded. 

"  NothinV 

"  Nothin',  I  guess.  If  you  was  flatterin'  your 
self  with  the  idea  that  I  came  here  to  chase  after 
you,  you  never  was  more  mistaken  in  your  life,  or 

183 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

ever  will  be.  You  set  down.  You  and  I  have  got 
to  talk.  Set  right  down." 

The  lightkeeper  hesitated.  Then  he  obeyed  or 
ders  by  seating  himself  on  an  oil  barrel  lying  on 
its  side  near  the  wall.  The  lantern  he  placed  on 
the  floor  at  his  feet.  Mrs.  Bascom  perched  on  one 
of  the  lower  steps  of  the  iron  stairs. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  "  we've  got  to  talk.  Seth  Bas 
com " 

Seth  started  violently. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  the  lady.  "  Why  did  you 
jump  like  that?  Nobody  comin',  is  there?  " 

"  No.  No  .  .  .  But  I  couldn't  help  jumpin' 
when  you  called  me  that  name." 

"  That  name?  It's  your  name,  isn't  it?  Oh," 
she  smiled  slightly;  "  I  remember  now.  You've 
taken  the  name  of  Atkins  since  we  saw  each  other 
last." 

"  I  didn't  take  it;  it  belonged  to  me.  You  know 
my  middle  name.  I  just  dropped  the  Bascom, 
that's  all." 

"  I  see.  Just  as  you  dropped — some  other  re 
sponsibilities.  Why  didn't  you  drop  the  whole 
christenin'  and  start  fresh?  Why  did  you  hang  on 
to  '  Seth  '  ?  " 

The  lightkeeper  looked  guilty.  Mrs.  Bascom's 
184 


THE    BUNGALOW   WOMAN 

smile  broadened.  "  I  know,"  she  went  on.  '  You 
didn't  really  like  to  drop  it  all.  It  was  too  much 
of  a  thing  to  do  on  your  hook,  and  there  wasn't 
anybody  to  tell  you  to  do  it,  and  so  you  couldn't 
quite  be  spunky  enough  to " 

He  interrupted  her.  "  That  wa'n't  the  reason," 
he  said  shortly. 

"  What  was  the  reason?  " 

"  You  want  to  know,  do  you?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do." 

"  Well,  the  '  Bascom  '  part  wa'n't  mine  no  more 
— not  all  mine.  I'd  given  it  to  you." 

"  O — oh!  oh,  I  see.  And  you  ran  away  from 
your  name  as  you  ran  away  from  your  wife.  I  see. 
And  .  .  .  why,  of  course  !  you  came  down  here 
to  run  away  from  all  the  women.  Miss  Ruth  said 
this  mornin'  she  was  told — I  don't  know  who  by 
— that  the  lightkeeper  was  a  woman-hater.  Are 
you  the  woman-hater,  Seth?  " 

Mr.  Atkins  looked  at  the  floor.  "  Yes,  I  be," 
he  answered,  sullenly.  "  Do  you  wonder?" 

"  I  don't  wonder  at  your  runnin'  away;  that  I 
should  have  expected.  But  there,"  more  briskly, 
"  this  ain't  gettin'  us  anywhere.  You're  here — and 
I'm  here.  Now  what's  your  idea  of  the  best  thing 
to  be  done,  under  the  circumstances?  " 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

Seth  shifted  his  feet.  "  One  of  us  better 
go  somewheres  else,  if  you  ask  me,"  he  de 
clared. 

"  Run  away  again,  you  mean?  Well,  I  sha'n't 
run  away.  I'm  Miss  Ruth's  housekeeper  for  the 
summer.  I  answered  her  advertisement  in  the  Bos 
ton  paper  and  we  agreed  as  to  wages  and  so  on. 
I  like  her  and  she  likes  me.  Course  if  I'd  known 
my  husband  was  in  the  neighborhood,  I  shouldn't 
have  come  here;  but  I  didn't  know  it.  Now  I'm 
here  and  I'll  stay  my  time  out.  What  are  you 
goin'  to  do?  " 

''  I'm  goin'  to  send  in  my  resignation  as  keeper 
of  these  lights.  That's  what  I'm  goin'  to  do,  and 
I'll  do  it  to-morrow." 

"  Run  away  again?  " 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

'Why?  Why?  Emeline  Bascom,  do  you  ask 
me  that?" 

"  I  do,  yes.  See  here,  Seth,  we  ain't  children, 
nor  sentimental  young  folks.  We're  sensible,  or 
we'd  ought  to  be.  Land  knows  we're  old  enough. 
I  shall  stay  here  and  you  ought  to.  Nobody  knows 
I  was  your  wife  or  that  you  was  my  husband,  and 
nobody  needs  to  know  it.  We  ain't  even  got  the 

186 


THE    BUNGALOW    WOMAN 

same  names.  We're  strangers,  far's  folks  know, 
and  we  can  stay  strangers." 

"  But — but  to  see  each  other  every  day 
and " 

"Why  not?  We've  seen  each  other  often  enough 
so  that  the  sight  won't  be  so  wonderful.  And  we'll 
keep  our  bein'  married  a  secret.  I  sha'n't  boast  of 
it,  for  one." 

"  But — but  to  see  each  other " 

'  Well,  we  needn't  see  each  other  much.  Why, 
we  needn't  see  each  other  any,  unless  I  have  to  run 
over  to  borrer  somethin',  same  as  neighbors  have 
to  every  once  in  a  while.  I  can  guess  what's  trou- 
blin'  you;  it's  young  Brown.  You've  told  him 
you're  a  woman-hater,  haven't  you?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have." 

"  Humph!     Is  he  one,  too?" 

The  lightkeeper's  mouth  was  twisted  with  a  vio 
lent  emotion.  He  remembered  his  view  of  that 
afternoon's  swimming  lesson. 

"  He  said  he  was,"  he  snarled.  "  He  pretends 
he  is." 

Mrs.  Bascom  smiled.  "  I  want  to  know,"  she 
said.  "Umph!  I  thought  .  .  .  However,  it's 
no  matter.  Perhaps  he  is.  Anyhow  he  can  pretend 
to  be  and  you  can  pretend  to  believe  him.  That'll 

187 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

be  the  easiest  way,  I  guess.  Of  course,"  she  added, 
"  I  ain't  tellin'  you  what  to  do  with  any  idea  that 
you'll  do  it  because  I  say  so.  The  time  for  that  is 
all  past  and  gone.  But  it  seems  to  me  that,  for 
once  in  my  life,  I'd  be  man  enough  to  stick  it  out. 
I  wouldn't  run  away  again." 

Seth  did  not  answer.  He  scowled  and  stared  at 
the  circle  of  lantern  light  on  the  stone  floor.  Mrs. 
Bascom  rose  from  her  seat  on  the  stairs. 

"  Well,"  she  observed,  "  I  must  be  gettin'  back 
to  the  house  if  I  want  to  get  any  sleep  to-night.  I 
doubt  if  I  get  much,  for  a  body  don't  get  over  a 
shock,  such  as  I've  had,  in  a  minute.  But  I'm  goin' 
to  get  over  it  and  I'm  goin'  to  stay  right  here  and 
do  my  work;  I'm  goin'  to  go  through  with  what 
seems  to  be  my  duty,  no  matter  how  hard  it  is. 
I've  done  it  afore,  and  I'll  do  it  again.  I've  prom 
ised,  and  I  keep  my  promises.  Good  night." 

She  started  toward  the  door.  Her  husband 
sprang  from  the  oil  barrel. 

"  Hold  on,"  he  cried;  "  you  wait  a  minute.  I've 
got  somethin'  to  say." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  can't  wait,"  she  said; 
"  I've  got  to  go." 

"  No,  you  ain't,  neither.  You  can  stay  a  spell 
longer,  if  you  want  to." 

188 


THE    BUNGALOW    WOMAN 

"  Perhaps,  but  I  don't  want  to." 

"  Why  not?     What  are  you  afraid  of?  " 

"Afraid!  I  don't  know  as  I'm  afraid  of  any 
thing — that  is,"  with  a  contemptuous  sniff,  "  noth- 
in'  I  see  around  here." 

'  Then  what  are  you  runnin'  away  for?  " 

This  was  putting  the  matter  in  a  new  light.  Mrs. 
Bascom  regarded  her  husband  with  wrathful 
amazement,  which  slowly  changed  to  an  amused 
smile. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  if  you  think  I'm  runnin'  away, 
why " 

"  I  don't  see  what  else  'tis.  If  I  ain't  scart  to 
have  you  here,  I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  scart 
to  stay.  Set  down  on  them  stairs  again ;  I  want  to 
talk  to  you." 

The  lady  hesitated  an  instant  and  then  returned 
to  her  former  seat.  Seth  went  back  to  his  barrel. 

"  Emeline,"  he  said.  "  I'll  stay  here  on  my 
job." 

She  looked  surprised,  but  she  nodded. 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  she  said.  "  I'm  glad 
you've  got  that  much  spunk." 

'  Yup;  well,  I  have.     I  came  down  here  to  get 
clear  of  everybody,  women  most  of  3 11.     Now  the 

one  woman  that — that " 

189 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  That    you    'specially    wanted    to    get    clear 


of- 


"  No !  No !  that  ain't  the  truth,  and  you  know 
it.  She  set  out  to  get  clear  of  me — and  I  let  her 
have  her  way,  same  as  I  done  in  everything  else." 

"  She  didn't  set  out  to  get  clear  of  you." 

"  She  did." 

"  No,  she  didn't." 

"  I  say  she  did." 

Mrs.  Bascom  rose  once  more.  "  Seth  Bascom," 
she  declared,  "if  all  you  wanted  me  to  stay  here 
for  is  to  be  one  of  a  pair  of  katydids,  hollerin'  at 
each  other,  I'm  goin'.  I'm  no  bug;  I'm  a  woman." 

"  Emeline,  you  set  down.  You've  hove  out  a 
whole  lot  of  hints  about  my  not  bein'  a  man  be 
cause  I  run  away  from  your  house.  Do  you  think 
I'd  have  been  more  of  a  man  if  I'd  stayed  in  it? 
Stayed  there  and  been  a  yaller  dog  to  be  kicked  out 
of  one  corner  and  into  another  by  you  and — and 
that  brother-in-law  of  yours.  That's  all  I  was — a 
dog." 

"  Humph!  if  a  dog's  the  right  breed — and  big 
enough — it's  his  own  fault  if  he's  kicked  twice." 

"  Not  if  he  cares  more  for  his  master  than  he 
does  for  himself — 'taint." 

"  Why,  yes,  it  is.  He  can  make  his  master  re- 
190 


THE    BUNGALOW   WOMAN 

spect  him  by  provin'  he  ain't  the  kind  of  dog  to 
kick.  And  maybe  one  of  his  masters  —  his  real  mas 
ter,  for  he  hadn't  ought  to  have  but  one  —  might 
be  needin'  the  right  kind  of  watchdog  around 
the  house.  Might  be  in  trouble  her  —  himself,  I 
mean;  and  be  hopin'  and  prayin'  for  the  dog 
to  protect  her  —  him,  I  should  say.  And  then 


"  Emeline,  what  are  you  talkin'  about?  " 

"  Oh,  nothin',  nothin'.  Seth,  what's  the  use  of 
us  two  settin'  here  at  twelve  o'clock  at  night  and 
quarrelin'  over  what's  past  and  settled?  I  sha'n't 
do  it,  for  one.  /  don't  want  to  quarrel  with  you." 

Seth  sighed.  "  And  I  don't  want  to  quarrel  with 
you,  Emeline,"  he  agreed.  "  As  you  say,  there's 
no  sense  in  it.  Dear!  dear!  this,  when  you  come  to 
think  of  it,  is  the  queerest  thing  altogether  that 
ever  was  in  the  world,  I  guess.  Us  two  had  all 
creation  to  roam  'round  in,  and  we  landed  at  East- 
boro  Twin-Lights.  It  seems  almost  as  if  Provi 
dence  done  it,  for  some  purpose  or  other." 

"Yes;  or  the  other  critter,  for  his  purposes. 
How  did  you  ever  come  to  be  keeper  of  a  light, 
Seth?" 

;<  Why  —  why  —  I  don't  know.  I  used  to  be  in 
the  service,  'fore  I  went  to  sea  much.  You  re- 

191 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

member  I  told  you  I  did.  And  I  sort  of  drifted 
down  here.  I  didn't  care  much  what  became  of 
me,  and  I  wanted  a  lonesome  hole  to  hide  in,  and 
this  filled  the  bill.  I've  been  here  ever  since  I  left 
— left — where  I  used  to  be.  But,  Emeline,  how 
did  you  come  here?  You  answered  an  advertise 
ment,  you  told  me;  but  why?  " 

1  'Cause  I  wanted  to  do  somethin'  to  earn  my 
livin'.  I  was  alone,  and  I  rented  my  house  and 
boarded.  But  boardin'  ain't  much  comfort,  'spe 
cially  when  you  board  where  everybody  knows  you, 
and  knows  your  story.  So  I " 

14  Wait  a  minute.  You  was  alone,  you  say? 
Where  was — was  he?" 

"He?" 

"  Yes.     You  know  who  I  mean." 

He  would  not  speak  the  hated  name.  His  wife 
spoke  it  for  him. 

"Bennie?"  she  asked.  "Oh,  he  ain't  been 
with  me  for  'most  two  year  now.  He — he  went 
away.  He's  in  New  York  now.  And  I  was  alone 
and  I  saw  Miss  Graham's  advertisement  for  a 
housekeeper  and  answered  it.  I  needed  the  money 
and " 

"Hold  on!  You  needed  the  money?  Why, 
you  had  money." 

192 


THE    BUNGALOW   WOMAN 

"  Abner  left  me  a  little,  but  it  didn't  last  forever. 
And " 

"  You  had  more'n  a  little.  I  wrote  to  bank 
folks  there  and  turned  over  my  account  to  you. 
And  I  sent  'em  a  power  of  attorney  turnin'  over 
some  stocks — you  know  what  they  was — to  you, 
too.  I  done  that  soon's  I  got  to  Boston.  Didn't 
they  tell  you?" 

"  Yes,  they  told  me." 

"  Well,  then,  that  ought  to  have  helped  along." 

"  You  don't  s'pose  I  took  it,  do  you?  " 

"Why— why  not?" 

"  Why  not!  Do  you  s'pose  I'd  use  the  money 
that  belonged  to  the  husband  that  run  off  and  left 
me?  I  ain't  that  kind  of  a  woman.  The  money 
and  stocks  are  at  the  bank  yet,  I  s'pose;  anyhow 
they're  there  for  all  of  me." 

The  lightkeeper's  mouth  opened  and  stayed  open 
for  seconds  before  he  could  use  it  as  a  talking  ma 
chine.  He  could  scarcely  believe  what  he  had 
heard. 

"  But — but  I  wanted  you  to  have  it,"  he  gasped. 
"  I  left  it  for  you." 

"  Well,  I  didn't  take  it ;  'tain't  likely !  "  with  fiery 
indignation.  "  Did  you  think  I  could  be  bought  off 
like  a — a  mean — oh,  I  don't  know  what?  " 

193 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  But — but  I  left  it  at  the  bank — for  you. 
What— what'll  I  do  with  it?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  You  might  give  it  to 
Sarah  Ann  Christy;  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  she  was 
less  particular  than  I  be." 

Seth's  guns  were  spiked,  for  the  moment.  He 
felt  the  blood  rush  to  face,  and  his  fists,  as  he 
brandished  them  in  the  air,  trembled. 

"  I — I — you — you — "  he  stammered.  "I — I — 
you  think  I " 

He  knew  that  his  companion  would  regard  his 
agitation  as  an  evidence  of  conscious  guilt,  and  this 
knowledge  did  not  help  to  calm  him.  He  strode 
up  and  down  the  floor. 

"  Look  out,"  said  Mrs.  Bascom,  coldly,  "  you'll 
kick  over  the  lantern." 

Her  husband  stopped  in  his  stride.  "  Darn  the 
lantern !  "  he  shouted. 

"  S-sh-sh !   you'll  wake  up  the  Brown  man." 

This  warning  was  more  effective.  But  Seth  was 
still  furious. 

"  Emeline  Bascom,"  he  snarled,  shaking  his  fore 
finger  in  her  face,  "  you've  said  over  and  over  that 
I  wa'n't  a  man.  You  have,  haven't  you?  " 

She  was  looking  at  his  shirt  cuff,  then  but  a  few 
inches  from  her  nose. 

194 


THE    BUNGALOW   WOMAN 

"  Who  sewed  on  that  button?  "  she  asked. 

This  was  so  unexpected  that  his  wrath  was,  for 
the  instant,  displaced  by  astonishment. 

"  What?  "  he  asked.     "  What  button?  " 

"  That  one  on  your  shirt  sleeve.  Who  sewed  it 
on?" 

"  Why,  I  did,  of  course.  What  a  crazy  question 
that  is!" 

She  smiled.  "  I  guessed  you  did,"  she  said. 
"  Nobody  but  a  man  would  sew  a  white  button  on 
a  white  shirt — or  one  that  was  white  once — with 
black  thread." 

He  looked  at  the  button  and  then  at  her.  His 
anger  returned. 

"  You  said  I  wa'n't  a  man,  didn't  you?  "  he  de 
manded. 

"  Yes,  I  did.  But  I'll  have  to  take  part  of  it 
back.  You're  half  a  man  anyhow;  that  sewin' 
proves  it." 

"  Huh!  I  want  to  know.  Well,  maybe  I  ain't 
a  man;  maybe  I'm  only  half  a  one.  But  I  ain't  a 
fool!  I  ain't  a  fool!" 

She  sighed  wearily.  "  Well,  all  right,"  she  ad 
mitted.  "  I  sha'n't  argue  it." 

'  You  needn't.  I  ain't — or  anyhow  I  ain't  an 
everlastin'  fool.  And  nobody  but  the  everlastin'- 

195 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

est  of  all  fools  would  chase  Sarah  Ann  Christy.  / 
didn't.  That  whole  business  was  just  one  of  your 
— your  Bennie  D.'s  lies.  You  know  that,  too." 

"  I  know  some  one  lied;  I  heard  'em.  They  de 
nied  seein'  Sarah  Ann,  and  I  saw  'em  with  her — 
with  my  own  eyes  I  saw  'em.  .  .  .  But  there, 
there,"  she  added;  "this  is  enough  of  such  talk. 
I'm  goin'  now." 

"I  didn't  lie;  I  forgot." 

"  All  right,  then,  you  forgot.  I  ain't  jealous, 
Seth.  I  wa'n't  even  jealous  then.  Even  then  I  give 
you  a  chance,  and  you  didn't  take  it — you  '  forgot ' 
instead.  I'm  goin'  back  to  the  bungalow,  but  afore 
I  go  let's  understand  this :  you're  to  stay  here  at  the 
lights,  and  I  stay  where  I  am  as  housekeeper.  We 
don't  see  each  other  any  oftener  than  we  have  to, 
and  then  only  when  nobody  else  is  around.  We 
won't  let  my  Miss  Graham  nor  your  Brown  nor 
anybody  know  we've  ever  met  afore — or  are 
meetin'  now.  Is  that  it?  " 

Seth   hesitated.      "  Yes,"   he    said,    slowly,    "  I 
guess  that's  it.     But,"  he  added,  anxiously,  "  I— 
I  wish  you'd  be  'specially  careful  not  to  let  that 
young  feller  who's  workin'   for  me  know.     Him 

and  me  had  a — a  sort  of  agreement  and — and  I — 
j " 

196 


THE    BUNGALOW    WOMAN 

"  He  sha'n't  know.     Good-by." 

She  fumbled  with  the  latch  of  the  heavy  door. 
He  stepped  forward  and  opened  it  for  her.  The 
night  was  very  dark;  a  heavy  fog,  almost  a  rain, 
had  drifted  in  while  they  were  together.  She 
didn't  seem  to  notice  or  mind  the  fog  or  blackness, 
but  went  out  and  disappeared  beyond  the  faint 
radiance  which  the  lantern  cast  through  the  open 
door.  She  blundered  on  and  turned  the  corner  of 
the  house ;  then  she  heard  steps  behind  her. 

'  Who  is  it?  "  she  whispered,  in  some  alarm. 

"  Me,"  whispered  the  lightkeeper,  gruffly.  "  I'll 
go  with  you  a  ways." 

"  No,  of  course  you  won't.     I'm  goin'  alone." 

"  It's  too  dark  for  you  to  go  alone.  You'll  lose 
the  way." 

"  I'm  goin'  alone,  I  tell  you  !  Go  back.  I  don't 
want  you." 

"  I  know  you  don't;  but  I'm  goin'.  You'll  fetch 
up  in  the  cove  or  somewheres  if  you  try  to  navigate 
this  path  on  your  own  hook." 

"  I  sha'n't.  I'm  used  to  findin'  my  own  way, 
and  I'm  goin'  alone — as  I've  had  to  do  for  a  good 
while.  Go  back." 

She  stopped  short.     Seth  stopped,  also. 

"  Go  back,"  she  insisted,  adding  scornfully:  "  I 
14  197 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

don't  care  for  your  help  at  all.    I'm  partic'lar  about 
my  company." 

"  I  ain't,"  sullenly.  "  Anyhow,  I'm  goin'  to  pi 
lot  you  around  the  end  of  that  cove.  You  sha'n't 
say  I  let  you  get  into  trouble  when  I  might  have 
kept  you  out  of  it." 

"  Say?  Who  would  I  say  it  to?  Think  I'm  so 
proud  of  this  night's  cruise  that  I'll  brag  of  it? 
Will  you  go  back?" 

"  No." 

They  descended  the  hill,  Mrs.  Bascom  in  ad 
vance.  She  could  not  see  the  path,  but  plunged  an 
grily  on  through  the  dripping  grass  and  bushes. 

"  Emeline — Emeline,"  whispered  Seth.  She 
paid  no  attention  to  him.  They  reached  the  foot 
of  the  slope  and  suddenly  the  lady  realized  that 
her  shoes,  already  wet,  were  now  ankle  deep  in 
water.  And  there  seemed  to  be  water  amid  the 
long  grass  all  about  her. 

"Why?  What  in  the  world?"  she  exclaimed 
involuntarily.  "  What  is  it?  " 

"  The  salt  marsh  at  the  end  of  the  cove,"  an 
swered  the  lightkeeper.  "  I  told  you  you'd  fetch 
up  in  it  if  you  tried  to  go  alone.  Been  tryin'  to 
tell  you  you  was  off  the  track,  but  you  wouldn't 
listen  to  me." 

198 


THE    BUNGALOW    WOMAN 

And  she  would  not  listen  to  him  now.  Turning, 
she  splashed  past  him. 

"  Hold  on,"  he  whispered,  seizing  her  arm. 
"  That  ain't  the  way." 

She  shook  herself  from  his  grasp. 

"  Will  you  let  me  be,  and  mind  your  own  busi 
ness?  "  she  hissed. 

"  No,  I  won't.  I've  set  out  to  get  you  home, 
and  I'll  do  it  if  I  have  to  carry  you." 

"Carry  me?    You?    "You  dare!" 

His  answer  was  to  pick  her  up  in  his  arms.  She 
was  no  light  weight,  and  she  fought  and  wriggled 
fiercely,  but  Seth  was  big  and  strong  and  he  held 
her  tight.  She  did  not  scream;  she  was  too  anxious 
not  to  wake  either  the  substitute  assistant  or  Miss 
Graham,  but  she  made  her  bearer  all  the  trouble  she 
could.  They  splashed  on  for  some  distance;  then 
Seth  set  her  on  her  feet,  and  beneath  them  was  dry 
ground. 

"There!"  he  grumbled,  breathlessly.  "Now 
I  cal'late  you  can't  miss  the  rest  of  it.  There's  the 
bungalow  right  in  front  of  you." 

'  You — you — "  she  gasped,  chokingly. 

"  Ugh!  "  grunted  her  husband,  and  stalked  off 
into  the  dark. 


CHAPTER    XI 

BEHIND  THE  SAND  DUNE 

A    FOG  last  night,  wasn't  there?"  inquired 
Brown.     Breakfast  was  over,  and  Seth 
was  preparing  for  his  day's  sleep. 
"  Yes,    some   consider'ble,"   was   the   gruff   an 
swer;   then,   more   sharply,    "  How'd  you   know? 
'Twas  all  gone  this  mornin'." 
"  Oh,  I  guessed,  that's  all." 
"Humph!     Guessed,  hey?     You  wa'n't  up  in 
the  night,  was  you?" 

"  No.    Slept  like  a  top  all  through." 
"Humph!  .  .  .  Well,   that's  good;   sleep's  a 
good  thing.     Cal'late  I'll  turn  in  and  get  a  little 
myself." 

He  moved  toward  the  living  room.     At  the 
door  he  paused  and  asked  another  question. 

"  How'd   you — er — guess   there    was    fog   last 
night?  "  he  inquired. 

"Oh,    that   was    easy;    everything — grass   and 
200 


BEHIND    THE    SAND    DUNE 

bushes — were  so  wet  this  morning.  Those  boots 
of  yours,  for  example,"  pointing  to  the  pair  the 
lightkeeper  had  just  taken  off,  "  they  look  as  if 
you  had  worn  them  wading." 

His  back  was  toward  his  superior  as  he  spoke, 
therefore  he  did  not  see  the  start  which  the  latter 
gave  at  this  innocent  observation,  nor  the  horrified 
glare  at  the  soaked  boots.  But  he  could  not  help 
noticing  the  change  in  Seth's  voice. 

"  Wa — wadin'  ?  "  repeated  Atkins  faintly. 
"  What's  that  you  say?  " 

"  I  said  the  boots  were  as  wet  as  if  you  had  been 
wading.  Why?" 

"  Wha — what  made  you  say  a  fool  thing  like 
that?  How  could  I  go  wadin'  on  top  of  a  light 
house?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  There,  there !  "  impa 
tiently,  "  don't  ask  any  more  questions.  I  didn't 
say  you  had  been  wading,  and  I  didn't  suppose  you 
really  had.  I  was  only  joking.  What  is  the  mat 
ter  with  you  ?  " 

"  Nothin'  .  .  .  nothin'.  So  you  was  just  jok- 
in',  hey?  Ha,  ha !  Yes,  yes,  wadin'  up  in  a  light 
house  would  be  a  pretty  good  joke.  I — I  didn't 
see  it  at  first,  you  know.  Ha,  ha !  I  thought  you 
must  be  off  your  head.  Thought  you'd  been  swim- 

201 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

min'  too  much  or  somethin'.  So  long,  I'm  goin' 
to  bed." 

But  now  it  was  the  helper's  turn  to  start  and 
stammer. 

"  Wait !  "  he  cried.  "  What — what  did  you  say 
about  my — er — swimming,  was  it?  " 

"  Oh,  nothin',  nothin'.  I  was  just  jokin',  same 
as  you  was  about  the  wadin'.  Ha,  ha!  " 

"Ha,  ha!" 

Both  laughed  with  great  heartiness.  The  door 
shut  between  them,  and  each  stared  doubtfully  at 
his  side  of  it  for  several  moments  before  turning 
away. 

That  forenoon  was  a  dismal  one  for  John 
Brown.  His  troublesome  conscience,  stirred  by 
Seth's  reference  to  swimming,  was  again  in  full 
working  order.  He  tried  to  stifle  its  reproaches, 
tried  to  give  his  entire  attention  to  his  labors  about 
the  lights  and  in  the  kitchen,  but  the  consciousness 
of  guilt  was  too  strong.  He  felt  mean  and  trait 
orous,  a  Benedict  Arnold  on  a  small  scale.  He  had 
certainly  treated  Atkins  shabbily;  Atkins,  the  man 
who  trusted  him  and  believed  in  him,  whom  he 
had  loftily  reproved  for  "  spying  "  and  then  be 
trayed.  Yet,  in  a  way  his  treason,  so  far,  had  been 
unavoidable.  He  had  promised — had  even  offered 

202 


BEHIND    THE    SAND    DUNE 

to  teach  the  Graham  girl  the  "  side  stroke."  He 
had  not  meant  to  make  such  an  offer  or  promise, 
but  Fate  had  tricked  him  into  it,  and  he  could  not, 
as  a  gentleman,  back  out  altogether.  He  had  been 
compelled  to  give  her  one  lesson.  But  he  need 
not  give  her  another.  He  need  not  meet  her  again. 
He  would  not.  He  would  keep  the  agreement 
with  Seth  and  forget  the  tenants  of  the  bungalow 
altogether.  Good  old  Atkins !  Good  old  Seth, 
the  woman-hater !  How  true  he  was  to  his  creed, 
the  creed  which  he,  Brown,  had  so  lately  pro 
fessed.  It  was  a  good  creed,  too.  Women  were 
at  the  bottom  of  all  the  world's  troubles.  They 
deserved  to  be  hated.  He  would  never,  never 

"  Well,  by  George  !  "  he  exclaimed  aloud. 

He  was  looking  once  more  at  the  lightkeeper's 
big  leather  boots.  One  of  them  was  lying  on  its 
side,  and  the  upturned  sole  and  heel  were  thickly 
coated  with  blue  clay.  He  crossed  the  room, 
picked  up  the  boots  and  examined  them.  Each  was 
smeared  with  the  clay.  He  put  them  down  again, 
shook  his  head,  wandered  over  to  the  rocking-chair 
and  sat  down. 

Seth  had  cleaned  and  greased  those  boots  be 
fore  he  went  to  bed  the  day  before;  Brown  had 
seen  him  doing  it.  He  had  put  them  on  after 

203 


THE   WOMAN-HATERS 

supper,  just  before  going  on  watch;  the  substitute 
assistant  had  seen  him  do  that,  also.  Therefore, 
the  clay  must  have  been  acquired  sometime  dur 
ing  the  evening  or  night  just  past.  And  certainly 
there  was  no  clay  at  the  "  top  of  the  lighthouse," 
or  anywhere  in  the  neighborhood  except  at  one 
spot — the  salt  marsh  at  the  inner  end  of  the  cove. 
Seth  must  have  visited  that  marsh  in  the  nighttime. 
But  why?  And,  if  he  had  done  so,  why  did  he 
not  mention  the  fact?  And,  now  that  the  helper 
thought  of  it,  why  had  he  been  so  agitated  at  the 
casual  remark  concerning  wading?  What  was  he 
up  to  ?  Now  that  the  Daisy  M.  and  story  of  the 
wife  were  no  longer  secrets,  what  had  Seth  Atkins 
to  conceal? 

Brown  thought  and  guessed  and  surmised,  but 
guesses  and  surmises  were  fruitless.  He  finished 
his  dishwashing  and  began  another  of  the  loathed 
housekeeping  tasks,  that  of  rummaging  the  pantry 
and  seeing  what  eatables  were  available  for  his 
luncheon  and  the  evening  meal. 

He  spread  the  various  odds  and  ends  on  the 
kitchen  table,  preparatory  to  taking  account  of 
stock.  A  part  of  a  slab  of  bacon,  a  salt  codfish, 
some  cold  clam  fritters,  a  few  molasses  cookies, 
and  half  a  loaf  of  bread.  He  had  gotten  thus  far 

204 


BEHIND    THE    SAND    DUNE 

in  the  inventory  when  a  shadow  darkened  the  door 
way.  He  turned  and  saw  Mrs.  Bascom,  the 
bungalow  housekeeper. 

"  Good  mornin',"  said  Mrs.  Bascom. 

Brown  answered  coldly.  Why  on  earth  was  it 
always  his  luck  to  be  present  when  these  female 
nuisances  made  their  appearance?  And  why 
couldn't  they  let  him  alone,  just  as  he  had  deter 
mined  to  let  them  alone — in  the  future?  Of 
course  he  was  glad  that  the  caller  was  not  Miss 
Graham,  but  this  one  was  bad  enough. 

"  Morning,"  he  grunted,  and  took  another  dish, 
this  one  containing  a  section  of  dry  and  ancient 
cake,  Seth's  manufacture,  from  the  pantry. 

"  What  you  doin'  ?  Gettin'  breakfast  this  time 
of  day? "  asked  the  housekeeper,  entering  the 
kitchen.  She  had  a  small  bowl  in  her  hand. 

"  No,"  replied  Brown. 

"Dinner,  then?  Pretty  early  for  that,  ain't 
it?" 

"  I  am  not  getting  either  breakfast  or  dinner — 
or  supper,  madam,"  replied  the  helper,  with  em 
phasis.  "  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  but  there  is.  I  come  over 
hopin'  you  might.  How's  the  stings?" 

"  The  what?" 

205 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  The  wasp  bites." 

"  They're  all  right,  thank  you." 

"  You're  welcome,  I'm  sure.  Did  you  put  the 
cold  mud  on  'em,  same  as  I  told  you  to?  " 

"  No.   .  .   .  What  was  it  you  wanted?  " 

Mrs.  Bascom  looked  about  for  a  seat.  The 
rocker  was  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  and 
the  other  chair  contained  a  garment  belonging  to 
Mr.  Atkins,  one  which  that  gentleman,  with  char 
acteristic  disregard  of  the  conventionalities,  had 
discarded  before  leaving  the  kitchen  and  had  for 
gotten  to  take  with  him.  The  lady  picked  up 
the  garment,  looked  at  it,  and  sat  down  in  the 
chair. 

"Your  boss  is  to  bed,  I  s'pose  likely?"  she 
asked. 

"  You  mean  Mr.  Atkins?  I  suppose  likely  he 
is." 

"  Urn.  I  judged  he  was  by  " — with  a  glance  at 
the  garment  which  she  still  held — "  the  looks  of 
things.  What  in  the  world  are  you  doin' — cleanin' 
house?  " 

The  young  man  sighed  wearily.  '  Yes,"  he 
said  with  forced  resignation,  "  something  of  that 
sort." 

"  Seein'  what  there  was  to  eat,  I  guess." 
206 


BEHIND    THE    SAND    DUNE 

"  You  guess  right.  You  said  you  had  an  errand, 
I  think." 

"  Did  I  ?  Well,  I  come  to  see  if  I  couldn't  .  .  . 
What's  that  stuff?  Cake?" 

She  rose,  picked  up  a  slice  of  the  dry  cake,  broke 
it  between  her  fingers,  smelled  of  it,  and  replaced  it 
on  the  plate. 

"  'Tis  cake,  ain't  it?  "  she  observed;  "  or  it  was, 
sometime  or  other.  Who  made  it?  You?  " 

"  No." 

"Oh,  your  boss,  Mr. — er — Atkins,  hey?" 

'  Yes.  Considering  that  there  are  only  two  of 
us  here,  and  I  didn't  make  it,  it  would  seem  pretty 
certain  that  he  must  have." 

"  Yes,  1  guess  that's  right;  unless  'twas  some 
that  washed  ashore  from  Noah's  Ark,  and  it's  too 
dry  for  that.  What  on  earth  are  these?  "  picking 
up  one  of  the  molasses  cookies;  "  stove  lids?  " 

Brown  grinned,  in  spite  of  his  annoyance. 

"  Those  are  supposed  to  be  cookies,"  he  ad 
mitted. 

"Are  they?  Yes,  yes.  Mr.  Atkins  responsible 
for  them?  " 

"  No — o.  I'm  afraid  those  are  one  of  my  ex 
periments,  under  Mr.  Atkins's  directions  and  or 
ders.  I'm  rather  proud  of  those  cookies,  myself." 

207 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

'You'd  ought  to  be.  There,  there!"  with  a 
smile,  "  I  guess  you  think  I'm  pretty  free  with  my 
criticism  and  remarks,  don't  you?  You  must  ex 
cuse  me.  Housekeepin' — 'specially  the  cookin' 
part — is  my  hobby,  as  you  might  say,  and  I  was 
interested  to  see  how  a  couple  of  men  got  along 
with  the  job.  I  mustn't  set  around  and  keep  you 
from  your  work.  You  might  want  to  make  some 
more  cookies,  or  somethin'." 

The  substitute  assistant  laughed  aloud.  "  I 
wasn't  thinking  of  it,"  he  said;  "but  I  shall  be 
glad  to  make  the  attempt  if  it  would  afford  you 
amusement." 

Mrs.  Bascom  laughed,  too.  "  I  guess  you're  bet 
ter  natured  than  I  thought  you  was,"  she  observed. 
"  It  might  amuse  me  some,  I  will  admit,  but  I 
ain't  got  the  time.  I  came  to  borrow  some  butter, 
if  you've  got  any  to  spare.  Down  here  we're  as 
far  from  supplies  as  the  feller  that  run  the  Ark 
I  was  mentionin',  old  Noah  himself." 

Brown  took  the  bowl  from  her  hands  and  went 
to  the  pantry  to  get  the  butter.  When  he  turned 
again  she  was  standing  by  the  door,  one  hand  hid 
den  beneath  her  apron.  She  took  the  bowl  with 
the  other. 

"  Much  obliged,"  she  said.  "  I'll  fetch  this 
208 


BEHIND    THE    SAND    DUNE 

back  soon's  the  grocery  cart  comes.  Miss  Gra 
ham  made  arrangements  to  have  him  drive 
across  every  Saturday.  Or,  rather,  I  arranged 
for  it  myself.  Her  head's  too  full  of  paintin' 
and  scenery  to  think  of  much  else.  I  tell  her  you 
can't  eat  an  ile  paintin' — unless  you're  born  a 
goat.  Good-by." 

She  went  away.  Brown  chuckled  and  went  on 
with  his  account  of  stock. 

Seth  "  turned  out "  rather  early  that  day.  At 
half  past  one  he  appeared  in  the  kitchen,  partially 
dressed. 

:' Where  in  time  is  my  shirt?"  he  demanded 
impatiently. 

"Your  what?" 

"  My  shirt.  I  thought  I  took  it  off  out  here. 
Could  have  sworn  I  did.  Guess  likely  I  didn't, 
though.  Must  be  gettin'  absent-minded." 

He  was  on  his  way  back  to  the  bedroom  when 
his  helper  called. 

"  You  did  take  it  off  out  here,"  he  cried.  "  It 
was  on  that  chair  there.  I  remember  seeing  it. 
Probably  it  has  fallen  on  the  floor  somewhere." 

Atkins  returned,  grumbling  that  the  kitchen 
floor  was  a  "  healthy  place  to  heave  a  shirt." 

"Where  is  it?"  he  asked  after  a  hurried 
209 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

search.     "  I  can't  find  it  nowheres.     Didn't  put  it 
in  the  fire,  did  ye?  " 

"  Of  course  I  didn't.  I  saw  it.  ...  Why,  I 
remember  that  woman's  picking  it  up  when  she 
sat  down." 

"Woman?    What  woman?" 

'  That  Baskin — Buskin — whatever  her  name  is. 
The  housekeeper  at  the  bungalow." 

'  Was  she — here? "  Seth's  question  was  al 
most  a  shout.  His  helper  stared  at  him. 

'  Yes,"  he  answered;  "  she  was.  She  came  to 
borrow  some  butter." 

'  To — to  borrow — butter?  " 
"  Why,  yes.     You  didn't  think  I  invited  her  in 
for  a  morning  call,  did  you?     Don't  act  as  if  you 
had  been  struck  by  lightning.      It's  not  so  very 
serious.     We've  got  to  expect  some  trouble  of  that 
kind.     I  got  rid  of  her  as  soon  as  I  could." 
"You— you  did?" 

"  Yes,  I  did.  You  should  thank  me.  I  am  on 
duty  during  the  day,  and  I  suppose  most  of  that 
sort  of  thing  will  fall  on  me.  You're  lucky.  Our 
neighbors  aren't  likely  to  make  many  calls  after 
dark.  .  .  .  What's  the  matter  now?  Why  are 
you  looking  at  me  like  that?  " 

Seth  walked  to  the  door  and  leaned  against  the 
210 


BEHIND    THE    SAND    DUNE 

post.  Brown  repeated  his  question.  "  What  is 
the  matter?  "  he  asked.  "  You  act  just  as  you  did 
when  I  first  happened  into  this  forsak — this  place. 
If  you've  got  any  more  hideous  secrets  up  your 
sleeve  I'm  going  to  quit." 

"Secrets!  "  Atkins  laughed,  or  tried  to.  "  I 
ain't  got  any  secrets,"  he  declared,  ''  any  more  than 
you  have." 

The  latter  half  of  this  speech  shut  off  further 
questioning.  Brown  turned  hastily  away,  and  the 
lightkeeper  went  into  his  bedroom  and  finished 
dressing. 

"Find  your  shirt?"  asked  the  young  man  an 
hour  or  so  later. 

"Hey?    Yes,  yes;  I  found  it." 

"In  your  room?  That's  odd.  I  could  have 
sworn  I  saw  it  out  here.  Is  that  it  you're  wear- 
ing?" 

"  Hey  ?  No.  That  was — was  sort  of  s'iled,  so  I 
put  on  my  other  one.  I — I  cal'late  I'll  go  over  and 
work  on  the  Daisy  M.  a  spell,  unless  you  need  me." 

"  I  don't  need  you.     Go  ahead." 

The  time   dragged   for  John   Brown  after  his 
superior's  departure.     There  was  work  enough  to 
be  done,  but  he  did  not  feel  like  doing  it.     He, 
wandered  around  the  house   and  lights,   gloomy, 

21  I 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

restless  and  despondent.     Occasionally  he  glanced 
at  the  clock. 

It  was  a  beautiful  afternoon,  just  the  afternoon 
for  a  swim,  and  he  was  debarred  from  swimming, 
not  only  that  day,  but  for  all  the  summer  days  to 
come.  No  matter  what  Seth's  new  secret  might  be, 
it  was  surely  not  connected  with  the  female  sex,  and 
Brown  would  be  true  to  the  solemn  compact  be 
tween  them.  He  could  not  bathe  in  the  cove  be 
cause  Miss  Graham  would  be  there. 

At  four  o'clock  he  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the 
light  tower  looking  across  the  cove.  As  he  looked 
he  saw  Miss  Graham,  in  bathing  attire,  emerge 
from  the  bungalow  and  descend  the  bluff.  She  did 
not  see  him  and,  to  make  sure  that  she  might  not, 
he  dodged  back  out  of  sight.  Then  he  saw  some 
thing  else. 

Out  on  the  dunes  back  of  the  barn  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  figure  darting  to  cover  behind  a  clump 
of  bushes.  The  figure  was  a  familiar  one,  but 
what  was  it  doing  there?  He  watched  the  bushes, 
but  they  did  not  move.  Then  he  entered  the  house, 
went  upstairs,  and  cautiously  peered  from  the  back 
attic  window. 

The  bushes  remained  motionless  for  some  min 
utes.  Then  they  stirred  ever  so  slightly,  and  above 

212 


BEHIND    THE    SAND    DUNE 

them  appeared  the  head  of  Seth  Atkins.  Seth 
seemed  to  be  watching  the  cove  and  the  lights. 
For  another  minute  he  peered  over  the  bushes,  first 
at  the  bathing  waters  below  and  then  at  his  own 
dwelling.  Brown  ground  his  teeth.  The  light- 
keeper  was  "  spying  "  again,  was  watching  to  see 
if  he  violated  his  contract. 

But  no,  that  could  not  be,  for  now  Seth,  ap 
parently  sure  that  the  coast  was  clear,  emerged 
from  his  hiding  place  and  ran  in  a  stooping  pos 
ture  until  he  reached  another  clump  further  off  and 
nearer  the  end  of  the  cove.  He  remained  there 
an  instant  and  then  ran,  still  crouching,  until  he 
disappeared  behind  a  high  dune  at  the  rear  of  the 
bungalow.  And  there  he  stayed;  at  least  Brown 
did  not  see  him  come  out. 

What  he  did  see,  however,  was  just  as  astonish 
ing.  The  landward  door  of  the  bungalow  opened, 
and  Mrs.  Bascom,  the  housekeeper,  stepped  out 
into  the  yard.  She  seemed  to  be  listening  and 
looking.  Apparently  she  must  have  heard  some 
thing,  for  she  moved  away  for  some  little  dis 
tance  and  stood  still.  Then,  above  the  edge  of  the 
dune,  showed  Seth's  head  and  arm.  He  beckoned 
to  her.  She  walked  briskly  across  the  intervening 
space,  turned  the  ragged,  grass-grown  corner  of 
15  213 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

the  knoll  and  disappeared,  also.  Brown,  scarcely 
believing  his  eyes,  waited  and  watched,  but  he  saw 
no  more.  Neither  Seth  nor  the  housekeeper  came 
out  from  behind  that  dune. 

But  the  substitute  assistant  had  seen  enough — 
quite  enough.  Seth  Atkins,  Seth,  the  woman-hater, 
the  man  who  had  threatened  him  with  all  sorts  of 
penalties  if  he  ever  so  much  as  looked  at  a  female, 
was  meeting  one  of  the  sex  himself,  meeting  her 
on  the  sly.  What  it  meant  Brown  could  not  imag 
ine.  Probably  it  explained  the  clay  smears  on  the 
boots  and  Seth's  discomfiture  of  the  morning;  but 
that  was  immaterial.  The  fact,  the  one  essential 
fact,  was  this:  the  compact  was  broken.  Seth  had 
broken  it.  Brown  was  relieved  of  all  responsi 
bility.  If  he  wished  to  swim  in  that  cove,  no  mat 
ter  who  might  be  there,  he  was  perfectly  free  to 
do  it.  And  he  would  do  it,  by  George !  He  had 
been  betrayed,  scandalously,  meanly  betrayed,  and 
it  would  serve  the  betrayer  right  if  he  paid  him 
in  his  own  coin.  He  darted  down  the  attic  stairs, 
ran  down  the  path  to  the  boathouse,  hurriedly 
changed  his  clothes  for  his  bathing  suit,  ran  along 
the  shore  of  the  creek  and  plunged  in. 

Miss  Graham  waved  a  hand  to  him  as  he  shoo!; 
the  water  from  his  eyes. 

214 


BEHIND    THE    SAND    DUNE 

Over  behind  the  sand  dune  a  more  or  less  in 
teresting  interview  was  taking  place.  Seth,  having 
made  sure  that  his  whistles  were  heard  and  his 
signals  seen,  sank  down  in  the  shadow  and  awaited 
developments.  They  were  not  long  in  coming.  A 
firm  footstep  crunched  the  sand,  and  Mrs.  Bascom 
appeared. 

"  Well,"  she  inquired  coldly,  "  what's  the  mat 
ter  now?  " 

Mr.  Atkins  waved  an  agitated  hand. 

"  Set  down,"  he  begged.  "  Scooch  down  out  of 
sight,  Emeline,  for  the  land  sakes.  Don't  stand 
up  there  where  everybody  can  see  you." 

The  lady  refused  to  "  scooch." 

"  If  I  ain't  ashamed  of  bein'  seen,"  she  ob 
served,  "  I  don't  know  why  you  should  be.  What 
are  you  doin'  over  here  anyhow;  skippin'  'round 
in  the  sand  like  a  hoptoad?  " 

The  lightkeeper  repeated  his  plea. 

"  Do  set  down,  Emeline,  please,"  he  urged.  "  I 
thought  you  and  me'd  agreed  that  nobody'd  ought 
to  see  us  together." 

Mrs.  Bascom  gathered  her  skirts  about  her  and 
with  great  deliberation  seated  herself  upon  a  hum 
mock. 

"  We  did  have  some  such  bargain,"  she  re- 
215 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

plied.  "  That's  why  I  can't  understand  your 
hidin'  at  my  back  door  and  whistlin'  and  wavin' 
like  a  young  one.  What  did  you  come  here  for, 
anyway?  " 

Seth  answered  with  righteous  indignation. 

"  I  come  for  my  shirt,"  he  declared. 

"Your  shirt?" 

"  Yes,  my  other  shirt.  I  left  it  in  the  kitchen 
this  mornin',  and  that — that  helper  of  mine  says 
you  was  in  the  chair  along  with  it." 

"  Humph !  Did  he  have  the  impudence  to  say 
I  took  it?" 

"  No — o.  No,  course  he  didn't.  But  it's  gone 
and — and " 

"What  would  I  want  of  your  shirt?  Didn't 
think  I  was  cal'latin'  to  wear  it,  did  you?  " 

"  No,  but " 

"  I  should  hope  not.  I  ain't  a  Doctor  Mary 
Walker,  or  whatever  her  name  is." 

"  But  you  did  take  it,  just  the  same.  I'm  sartin 
you  did.  You  must  have." 

The  lady's  mouth  relaxed,  and  there  was  a  twin 
kle  in  her  eye. 

"All  right,  Seth,"  she  said.  "Suppose  I  did; 
what  then?  " 

"  I  want  it  back,  that's  all." 
216 


BEHIND    THE    SAND    DUNE 

"  You  can  have  it.  Now  what  do  you  s'pose  I 
took  it  for?  " 

"  I_I_I  don't  know." 

"  You  don't  know?  Humph!  Did  you  think 
I  wanted  to  keep  it  as  a  souveneer  of  last  night's 
doin's?" 

Her  companion  looked  rather  foolish.  He 
picked  up  a  handful  of  sand  and  sifted  it  through 
his  fingers. 

"  No — o,"  he  stammered.  "  I — I  know  how 
partic'lar  you  are — you  used  to  be  about  such 
things,  and  I  thought  maybe  you  didn't  like  the 
way  that  button  was  sewed  on." 

He  glanced  up  at  her  with  an  embarrassed  smile, 
which  broadened  as  he  noticed  her  expression. 

'  Well,"  she  admitted,  "  you  guessed  right. 
There's  some  things  I  can't  bear  to  have  in  my 
neighborhood,  and  your  kind  of  sewin'  is  one  of 
'em.  Besides,  I  owed  you  that  much  for  keepin' 
me  out  of  the  wet  last  night." 

"  Oh !  I  judged  by  the  way  you  lit  into  me  for 
luggin'  you  acrost  that  marsh  that  all  you  owed 
me  was  a  grudge.  I  did  lug  you,  though,  in  spite 
of  your  kickin',  didn't  I?  " 

He  nodded  with  grim  triumph.     She  smiled. 

"  You  did,  that's  a  fact,"  she  said.  "  I  was 
217 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

pretty  mad  at  the  time,  but  when  I  come  to  think 
it  over  I  felt  diff'rent.  Anyhow  I've  sewed  on 
those  buttons  the  way  they'd  ought  to  be." 

"  Much  obliged.  I  guess  they'll  stay  now  for 
a  spell.  You  always  could  sew  on  buttons  better'n 
anybody  ever  I  see." 

"Humph!"  .  .  .  Then,  after  an  interval  of 
silence:  'What  are  you  grinnin'  to  yourself 
about?" 

"  Hey?  .  .  .  Oh,  I  was  just  thinkin'  how  you 
mended  up  that  Rogers  young  one's  duds  when  he 
fell  out  of  our  Harriett  pear  tree.  He  was  the 
raggedest  mess  ever  I  come  acrost  when  I  picked 
him  up.  Yellin'  like  a  wild  thing  he  was,  and  his 
clothes  half  tore  off." 

"  No  wonder  he  yelled.  Caught  stealin'  pears 
— he  expected  to  be  thrashed  for  that — and  he 
knew  Melindy  Rogers  would  whip  him  for  tearin' 
his  Sunday  suit.  Poor  little  thing !  Least  I  could 
do  was  to  make  his  clothes  whole.  I  always  pity  a 
child  with  a  stepmother,  special  when  she's  Me- 
lindy's  kind." 

"  What's  become  of  them  Rogerses?  Still  livin' 
in  the  Perry  house,  are  they?  " 

"  No.  Old  Abel  Perry  turned  'em  out  of  that 
when  the  rent  got  behind.  He's  the  meanest  skin- 

218 


BEHIND    THE    SAND    DUNE 

flint  that  ever  strained  skim  milk.     He  got  mar 
ried  again  a  year  ago." 

"  No!  Who  was  the  victim?  Somebody  from 
the  Feeble-Minded  Home?  " 

She  gave  the  name  of  Mr.  Perry's  bride,  and 
before  they  knew  it  the  pair  were  deep  in  village 
gossip.  For  many  minutes  they  discussed  the 
happenings  in  the  Cape  Ann  hamlet,  and  then  Seth 
was  recalled  to  the  present  by  a  casual  glance  at 
his  watch. 

"Land!"  he  exclaimed.  "Look  at  the  time! 
This  talk  with  you  has  seemed  so — so  natural  and 
old-timey,  that  .  .  .  Well,  I've  got  to  go." 

He  was  scrambling  to  his  feet.  She  also  at 
tempted  to  rise,  but  found  it  difficult. 

"  Here,"  he  cried,  "  give  me  your  hand.  I'll 
help  you  up." 

"  I  don't  want  any  help.  Let  me  alone.  Let 
me  alone,  I  tell  you." 

His  answer  was  to  seize  her  about  the  waist  and 
swing  her  bodily  to  her  feet.  She  was  flushed  and 
embarrassed.  Then  she  laughed  shortly  and  shook 
her  head. 

'What  are  you  laughin'  at?"  he  demanded, 
peering  over  the  knoll  to  make  sure  that  neither 
John  Brown  nor  Miss  Graham  was  in  sight. 

219 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  Oh,  not  much,"  she  answered.  "  You  kind  of 
surprise  me,  Seth." 

"Why?" 

"  'Cause  you've  changed  so." 

"Changed?    How?" 

"  Oh,  changed,  that's  all.  You  seem  to  have 
more  spunk  than  you  used  to  have." 

"  Humph  !     Think  so,  do  you?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  I  think  bein'  a  lightkeeper  must 
be  good  for  some  folks — some  kind  of  folks." 

"  I  want  to  know !  " 

"  Yes,  you  better  be  careful,  or  you'll  be  a  real 
man  some  day." 

His  answer  was  an  angry  stare  and  a  snort. 
Then  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  was  striding  off. 

"  Wait !  "  she  called.  "  Hold  on  !  Don't  you 
want  your  shirt?  Stay  here,  and  I'll  go  into  the 
house  and  fetch  it." 

He  waited,  sullen  and  reluctant,  until  she  re 
turned  with  the  article  of  apparel  in  one  hand  and 
the  other  concealed  beneath  her  apron. 

"  Here  it  is,"  she  said,  presenting  the  shirt  to 
him. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  grumbled,  taking  it.  "  Much 
obliged  for  sewin'  on  the  button." 

"  You're  welcome.  It  squares  us  for  your 
220 


BEHIND    THE    SAND    DUNE 

pilotin'  me  over  the  marsh,  that's  all.     'Twa'n't 
any  favor;  I  owed  it  to  you." 

He  was  turning  the  shirt  over  in  his  hands. 

"  Well,"  he  began,  then  stopped  and  looked 
fixedly  at  the  garment. 

"  I  see  you've  mended  that  hole  in  the  sleeve," 
he  said.  "  You  didn't  owe  me  that,  did  you?  " 

She  changed  color  slightly. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  with  a  toss  of  her  head,  "  that's 
nothin'.  Just  for  good  measure.  I  never  could 
abide  rags  on  anybody  that — that  I  had  to  look  at 
whether  I  wanted  to  or  not." 

"  'Twas  real  good  of  you  to  mend  it,  Emeline. 
Say,"  he  stirred  the  sand  with  his  boot,  "  you  men 
tioned  that  you  cal'lated  I'd  changed  some,  was 
more  of  a  man  than  I  used  to  be.  Do  you  know 
why?" 

"  No.  Unless,"  with  sarcasm,  "  it  was  because 
I  wa'n't  around." 

"  It  ain't  that.  It's  because,  Emeline,  it's  be 
cause  down  here  I'm  nigher  bein'  where  I  belong 
than  anywheres  else  but  one  place.  That  place  is  at 
sea.  When  I'm  on  salt  water  I'm  a  man — you 
don't  believe  it,  but  I  am.  On  land  I — I  don't 
seem  to  fit  in  right.  Keepin'  a  light  like  this  is 
next  door  to  bein'  at  sea." 

221 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  Seth,  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question.  Why  didn't 
you  go  to  sea  when  you  ran — when  you  left  me? 
I  s'posed  of  course  you  had.  Why  didn't  you?  " 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 

"  Go  to  sea  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  Go  to  sea?  How 
could  I?  Didn't  I  promise  you  I'd  never  go  to 
sea  again?  " 

"  Was  that  the  reason?  " 

"Sartin.    What  else?" 

She  did  not  answer.  There  was  an  odd  expres 
sion  on  her  face.  He  turned  to  go. 

"  Well,  good-by,"  he  said. 

"Good-by.    Er— Seth." 

"Yes;  what  is  it?" 

"  I — I  want  to  tell  you,"  she  stammered,  "  that 
I  appreciated  your  leavin'  that  money  and  stocks 
at  the  bank  in  my  name.  I  couldn't  take  'em,  of 
course,  but  'twas  good  of  you.  I  appreciated  it." 

"  That's  all  right." 

"Wait.  Here!  Maybe  you'd  like  these." 
She  took  the  hand  from  beneath  her  apron 
and  extended  it  toward  him.  It  held  a  pan  heaped 
with  objects  flat,  brown,  and  deliciously  fragrant. 
He  looked  at  the  pan  and  its  contents  uncompre- 
hendingly. 

"What's  them?"  he  demanded. 

222 


BEHIND    THE    SAND    DUNE 

"  They're  molasses  cookies.  I've  been  bakin', 
and  these  are  some  extry  ones  I  had  left  over. 
You  can  have  'em  if  you  want  'em." 

"  Why — why,  Emeline !  this  is  mighty  kind  of 
you." 

"  Not  a  mite,"  sharply.  "  I  baked  a  good  many 
more'n  Miss  Ruth  and  I  can  dispose  of,  and  that 
poor  helper  man  of  yours  ought  to  be  glad  to  get 
'em  after  the  cast-iron  pound-weights  that  you  and 
he  have  been  tryin'  to  live  on.  Mercy  on  us !  the 
thoughts  of  the  cookies  he  showed  me  this  mornin' 
have  stayed  in  my  head  ever  since.  Made  me  feel 
as  if  I  was  partly  responsible  for  murder." 

"  But  it's  kind  of  you,  just  the  same." 

"  Rubbish !  I'd  do  as  much  for  a  pig  any  day. 
There !  you've  got  your  shirt;  now  you'd  better  go 
home." 

She  forced  the  pan  of  cookies  into  his  hand  and 
moved  off.  The  Hghtkeeper  hesitated. 

"  I — I'll  fetch  the  pan  back  to-morrer,"  he  called 
after  her  in  a  loud  whisper. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  LETTER  AND  THE  'PHONE 

THE   cookies  appeared  on   the  table  that 
evening.     Brown  noticed  them  at  once. 

"When    did    you    bake    these?"    he 
asked. 

Atkins  made  no  reply,  so  the  question  was  re 
peated  with  a  variation. 

"  Did  you  bake  these  this  afternoon?  "  inquired 
the  substitute  assistant. 

"  Humph?  Hey?  Oh,  yes,  I  guess  so.  Why? 
Anything  the  matter  with  'em  ?  " 

"  Matter  with  them?  No.  They're  the  finest 
things  I've  tasted  since  I  came  here.  New  receipt, 
isn't  it?" 

"  Cal'late  so." 

"  I  thought  it  must  be.     I'll  take  another." 
He  took  another,  and  many  others  thereafter. 
He  and  his  superior  cleared  the  plate  between  them. 
Brown  was  prepared  for  questions  concerning 
224 


THE    LETTER    AND    THE    'PHONE 

his  occupation  of  the  afternoon  and  was  ready  with 
some  defiant  queries  of  his  own.  But  no  occasion 
arose  for  either  defiance  or  cross-examination.  Seth 
never  hinted  at  a  suspicion  nor  mentioned  the  young 
lady  at  the  bungalow.  Brown  therefore  remained 
silent  concerning  what  he  had  seen  from  the  attic 
window.  He  would  hold  that  in  reserve,  and  if 
Atkins  ever  did  accuse  him  of  bad  faith  or  breach 
of  contract  he  could  retort  in  kind.  His  con 
science  was  clear  now — he  was  no  more  of  a  traitor 
than  Seth  himself — and,  this  being  so,  he  felt  de 
lightfully  independent.  If  trouble  came  he  was 
ready  for  it,  and  in  the  meantime  he  should  do  as 
he  pleased. 

But  no  trouble  came.  That  day,  and  for  many 
days  thereafter,  the  lightkeeper  was  sweetness  it 
self.  He  and  his  helper  had  never  been  more 
anxious  to  please  each  other,  and  the  house  at  Twin- 
Lights  was — to  all  appearances — an  abode  of  per 
fect  trust  and  peace.  Every  day,  when  Seth  was 
asleep  or  out  of  the  way,  "  working  on  the  Daisy 
M.,"  the  assistant  swam  to  the  cove,  and  every  day 
he  met  Miss  Graham  there !  During  the  first  week 
he  returned  from  his  dips  expecting  to  be  con 
fronted  by  his  superior,  and  ready  with  counter  ac 
cusations  of  his  own.  After  this  he  ceased  to  care. 

225 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

Seth  did  not  ask  a  question  and  was  so  trustful 
and  unsuspecting  that  Brown  decided  his  secret 
was  undiscovered.  In  fact,  the  lightkeeper  was 
so  innocent  that  the  young  man  felt  almost  wicked, 
as  if  he  were  deceiving  a  child.  He  very  nearly 
forgot  the  meeting  behind  the  sand  dune,  hav 
ing  other  and  much  more  important  things  to 
think  of. 

July  passed,  and  the  first  three  weeks  of  August 
followed  suit.  The  weather,  which  had  been  glo 
rious,  suddenly  gave  that  part  of  the  coast  a  sur 
prise  party  in  the  form  of  a  three  days'  storm. 
It  was  an  offshore  gale,  but  fierce,  and  the  light 
house  buildings  rocked  in  its  grasp.  Bathing  was 
out  of  the  question,  and  one  of  Seth's  dories  broke 
its  anchor  rope  and  went  to  pieces  in  the  break 
ers.  Atkins  and  Brown  slept  but  little  during  the 
storm,  both  being  on  duty  the  greater  part  of  the 
time. 

The  fourth  day  broke  clear,  but  the  wind  had 
changed  to  the  east  and  the  barometer  threatened 
more  bad  weather  to  come.  When  Seth  came  in 
to  breakfast  he  found  his  helper  sound  asleep  in 
a  kitchen  chair,  his  head  on  the  table.  The  young 
man  was  pretty  well  worn  out.  Atkins  insisted 
upon  his  going  to  bed  for  the  forenoon. 

226 


THE    LETTER    AND    THE    'PHONE 

"  Of  course  I  sha'n't,"  protested  Brown.  "  It's 
my  watch,  and  you  need  sleep  yourself." 

"  No,  I  don't,  neither,"  was  the  decided  answer. 
"  I  slept  between  times  up  in  the  tower,  off  and 
on.  You  go  and  turn  in.  I've  got  to  drive  over 
to  Eastboro  by  and  by,  and  I  want  you  to  be  wide 
awake  while  I'm  away.  We  ain't  done  with  this 
spell  of  weather  yet.  We'll  have  rain  and  an  east 
erly  blow  by  night,  see  if  we  don't.  You  go  right 
straight  to  bed." 

"  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"  Yes,  you  will.  I'm  your  boss  and  I  order  you 
to  do  it.  No  back  talk,  now.  Go!  " 

So  Brown  went,  unwilling  but  very  tired.  He 
was  sound  asleep  in  ten  minutes. 

Seth  busied  himself  about  the  house,  occasionally 
stepping  to  the  window  to  look  out  at  the  weather. 
An  observer  would  have  noticed  that  before  leav 
ing  the  window  on  each  of  these  occasions,  his  gaze 
invariably  turned  toward  the  bungalow.  His 
thoughts  were  more  constant  than  his  gaze;  they 
never  left  his  little  cottage  across  the  cove.  In 
fact,  they  had  scarcely  left  it  for  the  past  month. 
He  washed  the  breakfast  dishes,  set  the  room  in 
order,  and  was  turning  once  more  toward  the  win 
dow,  when  he  heard  a  footstep  approaching  the 

227 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

open  door.  He  knew  the  step;  it  was  one  with 
which  he  had  been  familiar  during  other  and 
happier  days,  and  now,  once  more — after  all  the 
years  and  his  savage  determination  to  forget  and 
to  hate — it  had  the  power  to  awaken  strange  emo 
tions  in  his  breast.  Yet  his  first  move  was  to  run 
into  the  living  room  and  close  his  helper's  cham 
ber  door.  When  he  came  back  to  the  kitchen, 
shutting  the  living-room  door  carefully  behind  him, 
Mrs.  Bascom  was  standing  on  the  sill.  She  started 
when  she  saw  him. 

"Land  sakes!"  she  exclaimed.  "You?  I 
cal'lated,  of  course,  you  was  abed  and  asleep." 

The  lightkeeper  waved  his  hands. 

"S-sh-h!  "  he  whispered. 

"  What  shall  I  s-sh-h  about?  Your  young  man's 
gone  somewhere,  I  s'pose,  else  you  wouldn't  be 
here." 

"  No,  he  ain't.     He's  turned  in,  tired  out." 

"  Oh,  then  I  guess  I'd  better  go  back  home. 
'Twas  him  I  expected  to  see,  else,  of  course,  I 
shouldn't  have  come." 

"  Oh,  I  know  that,"  with  a  sigh.  "  Where's 
your  boss,  Miss  Graham?  " 

"  She's  gone  for  a  walk  along  shore.  I  came 
over  to — to  bring  back  them  eggs  I  borrowed." 

228 


THE    LETTER    AND    THE    'PHONE 

"  Did  you  ?    Where  are  they  ?  " 

The  housekeeper  seemed  embarrassed,  and  her 
plump  cheeks  reddened. 

"  I — I  declare  I  forgot  to  bring  'em  after  all," 
she  stammered. 

"  I  want  to  know.  That's  funny.  You  don't 
often — that  is,  you  didn't  use  to  forget  things 
hardly  ever,  Emeline." 

"  Hum  !  you  remember  a  lot,  don't  you." 

"  I  remember  more'n  you  think  I  do,  Emeline." 

"  That's  enough  of  that,  Seth.  Remember  what 
I  told  you  last  time  we  saw  each  other." 

"  Oh,  all  right,  all  right.  I  ain't  rakin'  up  by 
gones.  I  s'pose  I  deserve  all  I'm  gettin'." 

"  I  s'pose  you  do.  Well,  long's  I  forgot  the 
eggs  I  guess  I  might  as  well  be  trottin'  back.  .  .  . 
You — you've  been  all  right — you  and  Mr.  Brown, 
I  mean — for  the  last  few  days,  while  the  storm 
was  goin'  on?  " 

"  Um-h'm,"  gloomily.  "  How  about  you  two 
over  to  the  bungalow?  You've  kept  dry  and  snug, 
I  judge." 

"  Yes." 

"  I  didn't  know  but  you  might  be  kind  of  nervous 
and  scart  when  'twas  blowin'.  All  alone  so." 

"  Humph !     I've  got  used  to  bein'  alone.     As 
16  229 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

for  Miss  Ruth,  I  don't  think  she's  scart  of  any- 
thin'." 

"  Well,  I  was  sort  of  nervous  about  you,  if  you 
wa'n't  about  yourself.  'Twas  consider'ble  of  a 
gale  of  wind.  I  thought  one  spell  I'd  blow  out  of 
the  top  of  the  tower." 

"  So  did  I.  I  could  see  your  shadow  movin'  'round 
up  there  once  in  a  while.  What  made  you  come  out 
on  the  gallery  in  the  worst  of  it  night  afore  last?  " 

"  Oh,  the  birds  was  smashin'  themselves  to 
pieces  against  the  glass  same  as  they  always  do  in 
a  storm,  and  I  ...  But  say!  'twas  after 
twelve  when  I  came  out.  How'd  you  come  to  see 
me?  What  was  your  doin'  up  that  time  of  night?  " 

Mrs.  Bascom's  color  deepened.  She  seemed  put 
out  by  the  question. 

"  So  much  racket  a  body  couldn't  sleep,"  she 
explained  sharply.  "  I  thought  the  shingles  would 
lift  right  off  the  roof." 

"  But  you  wa'n't  lookin'  at  the  shingles.  You 
was  lookin'  at  the  lighthouses;  you  jest  said  so. 
Emeline,  was  you  lookin'  for  me  ?  Was  you  wor 
ried  about  me?  " 

He  bent  forward  eagerly. 

"  Hush !  "  she  said,  "  you'll  wake  up  the  other 
woman-hater." 

230 


THE    LETTER    AND    THE    'PHONE 

"  I  don't  care.  I  don't  care  if  I  wake  up  all 
creation.  Emeline,  I  believe  you  was  worried 
about  me,  same  as  I  was  about  you.  More'n  that," 
he  added,  conviction  and  exultation  in  his  tone, 
"  I  don't  believe  'twas  eggs  that  fetched  you  here 
this  mornin'  at  all.  I  believe  you  came  to  find  out 
if  we — if  I  was  all  right.  Didn't  you?  " 

"  I  didn't  come  to  see  you,  be  sure  of  that," 
with  emphatic  scorn. 

"  I  know.  But  you  was  goin'  to  see  Brown  and 
find  out  from  him.  Answer  me.  Answer  me  now, 
didn't " 

She  stepped  toward  the  door.  He  extended  an 
arm  and  held  her  back. 

'  You  answer  me,"  he  commanded. 

She  tried  to  pass  him,  but  his  arm  was  like  an 
iron  bar.  She  hesitated  a  moment  and  then 
laughed  nervously. 

"  You  certainly  have  took  to  orderin'  folks 
round  since  the  old  days,"  she  said.  "  Why,  yes, 
then;  I  did  come  to  find  out  if  you  hadn't  got  cold, 
or  somethin'.  You're  such  a  child  and  I'm  such  a 
soft-headed  fool  I  couldn't  help  it,  I  cal'late?  " 

"  Emeline,  s'pose  I  had  got  cold.  S'pose  you 
found  I  was  sick — what  then?  " 

'  Why — why,  then  I  guess  likely  I'd  have  seen 
231 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

the  doctor  on  my  way  through  Eastboro.  I  shall 
be  goin'  that  way  to-morrer  when  I  leave  here." 

"When  you  leave  here?  What  do  you  mean 
by  that?" 

'  Just  what  I  say.  Miss  Graham's  goin'  to  Bos 
ton  to-morrer,  and  I'm  goin'  with  her — as  far  as 
the  city." 

"  But — but  you're  comin'  back!  " 

"  What  should  I  come  back  here  for?  My  sum 
mer  job's  over.  If  you  want  to  know,  my  prin 
cipal  reason  for  comin'  here  this  mornin'  was  to 
say  good-by — to  Mr.  Brown,  of  course." 

Seth's  arm  dropped.  He  leaned  heavily  against 
the  doorpost. 

'  You're  goin'  away!  "  he  exclaimed.  "  You're 
goin' away!  Where?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Back  home,  I  s'pose.  Though 
what  I'll  do  when  I  get  there  I  don't  know.  I've 
sold  the  house,  so  I  don't  exactly  know  where  I'll 
put  up.  But  I  guess  I'll  find  a  place." 

"  You've  sold  your  house?  The  house  we  used 
to  live  in?" 

"  Yes.  The  man  that's  been  hirin'  it  has  bought 
it.  I'm  glad,  for  I  need  the  money.  So  good-by, 
Seth.  'Tain't  likely  we'll  meet  again  in  this  life." 

She  started  toward  the  door  once  more,  and  this 
232 


THE    LETTER    AND    THE    'PHONE 

time  he  was  too  greatly  disturbed  and  shaken  by 
what  she  had  told  him  to  detain  her.  At  the 
threshhold  she  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Good-by,  Seth,"  she  said  again.  "  I  hope 
you'll  be  happy.  And,"  with  a  half  smile,  "  if  I 
was  you  I'd  stay  keepin'  lights;  it,  or  somethin' 
else,  has  improved  you  a  whole  lot.  Good-by." 

Then  he  sprang  forward.  "  Emeline,"  he  cried, 
"  Emeline,  wait.  You  mustn't  go.  I  can't  let  you 
go  this  way.  I  ...  What's  that?  " 

"  That  "  was  the  sound  of  horse's  feet  and  the 
rattle  of  wheels.  The  lightkeeper  ran  to  the  win 
dow. 

"  It's  Henry  G.'s  grocery  cart,"  he  said.  "  I 
cal'late  he's  fetchin'  some  truck  I  ordered  last  week. 
Do  you  want  him  to  see  you  here?  " 

"  I  don't  care.  He  don't  know  but  what  you 
and  me  are  the  best  of  friends.  Yet,  I  don't 
know.  Maybe  it's  just  as  well  he  don't  see  me; 
then  there'll  be  no  excuse  for  talk.  I'll  step  inside 
and  wait." 

She  returned  to  the  kitchen,  and  Seth  went  out 
to  meet  the  wagon.  Its  driver  was  the  boy  who 
had  brought  the  flypaper  and  "Job." 

"  Hello,"  hailed  the  youngster,  pulling  in  his 
steed;  "  how  be  you,  Mr.  Atkins?  I've  got  some 

233 


THE    WOiMAN-HATERS 

of  them  things  you  ordered.  The  rest  ain't  come 
from  Boston  yet.  Soon's  they  do,  Henry  G.'ll 
send  'em  down.  How  you  feelin'  these  days? 
Ain't  bought  no  more  dogs,  have  you  ?  " 

Seth  curtly  replied  that  he  "  wa'n't  speculatin'  in 
dogs  to  no  great  extent  any  more,"  and  took  the 
packages  which  the  boy  handed  him.  With  them 
was  a  bundle  of  newspapers  and  an  accumulation 
of  mail  matter. 

"  I  fetched  the  mail  for  the  bungalow,  too,"  said 
the  boy.  "  There's  two  or  three  letters  for  that 
Graham  girl  and  one  for  Mrs.  Bascom.  She's 
housekeeper  there,  you  know." 

"  Yes.  Here,  you  might's  well  leave  their  mail 
along  with  mine.  I'll  see  it's  delivered,  all  right." 

"Will  you?  Much  obliged.  Coin'  to  take  it 
over  yourself  ?  Better  look  out,  hadn't  you  ?  That 
Graham  girl's  a  peach;  all  the  fellers  at  the  store's 
talkin'  about  her.  Seems  a  pity  she's  wastin'  her 
sassiety  on  a  woman-hater  like  you;  that's  what 
they  say.  You  ain't  gettin'  over  your  female  hate, 
are  you  ?  Haw,  haw !  " 

Mr.  Atkins  regarded  his  questioner  with  stern 
disapproval. 

"  There's  some  things — such  as  chronic  sassi- 
ness — some  folks  never  get  over,"  he  observed 

234 


THE    LETTER    AND    THE    'PHONE 

caustically.  "  Though  when  green  hides  are  too 
fresh  they  can  be  tanned;  don't  forget  that,  young 
feller.  Any  more  chatty  remarks  you've  got  to 
heave  over?  No?  Well,  all  right;  then  I'd  be 
trottin'  back  home  if  I  was  you.  Henry  G.'ll  have 
to  shut  up  shop  if  you  deprive  him  of  your  valu 
able  services  too  long.  Good  day  to  you." 

The  driver,  somewhat  abashed,  gathered  up  the 
reins.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  make  you  mad,"  he  ob 
served.  "  Anything  in  our  line  you  want  to 
order?" 

"  No.  I'm  cal'latin'  to  go  to  the  village  myself 
this  afternoon,  and  if  I  want  any  more  groceries 
I'll  order  'em  then.  As  for  makin'  me  mad — well, 
don't  you  flatter  yourself.  A  moskeeter  can  pester 
me,  but  he  don't  make  me  mad  but  once — and  his 
funeral's  held  right  afterwards.  Now  trot  along 
and  keep  in  the  shade  much  as  you  can.  You're 
so  fresh  the  sun  might  spile  you." 

The  boy,  looking  rather  foolish,  laughed  and 
drove  out  of  the  yard.  Seth,  his  arms  full,  went 
back  to  the  kitchen.  He  dumped  the  packages 
and  newspapers  on  the  table  and  began  sorting  the 
letters. 

"  Here  you  are,  Emeline,"  he  said.  "  Here's 
Miss  Graham's  mail  and  somethin'  for  you." 

235 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"For  me?"  The  housekeeper  was  surprised. 
"  A  letter  for  me!  What  is  it,  I  wonder?  Some- 
thin'  about  sellin'  the  house  maybe." 

She  took  the  letter  from  him  and  turned  to  the 
light  before  opening  it.  Seth  sat  down  in  the 
rocker  and  began  inspecting  his  own  assortment  of 
circulars  and  papers.  Suddenly  he  heard  a  sound 
from  his  companion.  Glancing  up  he  saw  that 
she  was  leaning  against  the  doorpost,  the  open  let 
ter  in  her  hand,  and  on  her  face  an  expression 
which  caused  him  to  spring  from  his  chair. 

"  What  is  it,  Emeline?  "  he  demanded.  "  Any 
bad  news?  " 

She  scarcely  noticed  him  until  he  spoke  again. 
Then  she  shook  her  head. 

"  No,"  she  said  slowly.  "  Nothin'  but — but 
what  I  might  have  expected." 

"  But  what  is  it?  It  is  bad  news.  Can't  I  help 
you?  Please  let  me,  if  I  can.  I — I'd  like  to." 

She  looked  at  him  strangely,  and  then  turned 
away.  "  I  guess  nobody  can  help  me,"  she  an 
swered.  "  Least  of  all,  you." 

"Why  not?  I'd  like  to;  honest,  I  would.  If 
it's  about  that  house  business  maybe  I " 

"  It  ain't." 

"Then  what  is  it?  Please,  Emeline.  I  know 
236 


THE    LETTER    AND    THE    'PHONE 

you  don't  think  much  of  me.  Maybe  you've 
got  good  reasons;  I'm  past  the  place  where 
I'd  deny  that.  I — I've  been  feelin'  meaner'n 
meaner  every  day  lately.  I — I  don't  knov/'s  I 
done  right  in  runnin'  off  and  leavin'  you  the  way 
I  did.  Don't  you  s'pose  you  could  give  me  another 
chance?  Emeline,  I " 

"  Seth  Bascom,  what  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Just  what  I  say.  Emeline,  you  and  me  was 
mighty  happy  together  once.  Let's  try  it  again. 
I  will,  if  you  will." 

She  was  staring  at  him  in  good  earnest  now. 

"Why,  Seth!"  she  exclaimed.  "What  are 
you  talkin'  about?  You — the  chronic  woman- 
hater!  " 

"That  be  blessed!  I  wa'n't  really  a  woman- 
hater.  I  only  thought  I  was.  And — and  I  never 
hated  you.  Right  through  the  worst  of  it  I  never 
did.  Let's  try  it  again,  Emeline.  You're  in 
trouble.  You  need  somebody  to  help  you.  Give 
me  the  chance." 

There  was  a  wistful  look  in  her  eyes;  she  seemed, 
or  so  he  thought,  to  be  wavering.  But  she  shook 
her  head.  "  I  was  in  trouble  before,  Seth,"  she 
said,  "  and  you  didn't  help  me  then.  You  run  off 
and  left  me." 

237 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  You  just  as  much  as  told  me  to  go.  You  know 
you  did." 

"  No,  I  didn't." 

"  Well,  you  didn't  tell  me  to  stay." 

"  It  never  seemed  to  me  that  a  husband — if  he 
was  a  man — would  need  to  be  coaxed  to  stay  by 
his  wife." 

"  But  don't  you  care  about  me  at  all?  You  used 
to ;  I  know  it.  And  I  always  cared  for  you.  What 
is  it?  Honest,  Emeline,  you  never  took  any  stock 
in  that  Sarah  Ann  Christy  doin's,  you  know  you 
didn't;  now,  did  you?  " 

She  was  close  to  tears,  but  she  smiled  in  spite  of 
them. 

"  Well,  no,  Seth,"  she  answered.  "  I  will  con 
fess  that  Sarah  Ann  never  worried  me  much." 

"  Then  don't  you  care  for  me,  Emeline?  " 

"  I  care  for  you  much  as  I  ever  did.  I  never 
stopped  carin'  for  you,  fool  that  I  am.  But  as 
for  livin'  with  you  again  and  runnin'  the  risk 

of " 

'  You  won't  run  any  risk.  You  say  I've  im 
proved,  yourself.  Your  principal  fault  with  me  was, 
as  I  understand  it,  that  I  was  too — too — somethin' 
or  other.  That  I  wa'n't  man  enough.  By  jiminy 
crimps,  I'll  show  you  that  I'm  a  man !  Give  me 

238 


THE    LETTER    AND    THE    'PHONE 

the  chance,  and  nothin'  nor  nobody  can  make  me 
leave  you  again.  Besides,  there's  nobody  to  come 
between  us  now.  We  was  all  right  until  that — 
that  Bennie  D.  came  along.  He  was  the  one  that 
took  the  starch  out  of  me.  Now  he's  out  of  the 
way.  He  won't  bother  us  any  more  and  .  .  . 
Why,  what  is  it,  Emeline?" 

For  she  was  looking  at  him  with  an  expression 
even  more  strange.  And  again  she  shook  her  head. 

"  I  guess,"  she  began,  and  was  interrupted  by 
the  jingle  of  the  telephone  bell. 

The  instrument  was  fastened  to  the  kitchen  wall, 
and  the  lightkeeper  hastened  to  answer  the  ring. 

"  Testin'  the  wire  after  the  storm,  most  likely," 
he  explained,  taking  the  receiver  from  the  hook. 
"  Hello!  .  .  .  Hello!  .  .  .  Yep,  this  is  East- 
boro  Lights.  .  .  .  I'm  the  lightkeeper,  yes. 
.  .  .  Hey?  .  .  .  Miss  Graham?  .  .  .  Right 
next  door.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  Who?"  Then, 
turning  to  his  companion,  he  said  in  an  astonished 
voice:  "It's  somebody  wants  to  talk  with  you, 
Emeline." 

"  With  me?  "  Mrs.  Bascom  could  hardly  be 
lieve  it.  "  Are  you  sure?  " 

"  So  they  say.  Asked  me  if  I  could  get  you  to 
the  'phone  without  any  trouble.  She's  right  here 

239 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

now,"   he  added,   speaking  into  the  transmitter. 
"  I'll  call  her." 

The  housekeeper  wonderingly  took  the  receiver 
from  his  hand. 

"  Hello !  "  she  began.  "  Yes,  this  is  Mrs.  Bas- 
com.  .  .  .  Who?  .  .  .  What?  .  .  .  Oh!" 

The  last  exclamation  was  almost  a  gasp,  but 
Seth  did  not  hear  it.  As  she  stepped  forward  to 
the  'phone  she  had  dropped  her  letter.  Atkins 
went  over  and  picked  it  up.  It  lay  face  down 
ward  on  the  floor,  and  the  last  page,  with  the 
final  sentence  and  signature,  was  uppermost.  He 
could  not  help  seeing  it.  "  So  we  shall  soon 
be  together  as  of  old.  Your  loving  brother, 
Benjamin." 

When  Mrs.  Bascom  turned  away  from  the 
'phone  after  a  rather  protracted  conversation  she 
looked  more  troubled  than  ever.  But  Seth  was 
not  looking  at  her.  He  sat  in  the  rocking-chair 
and  did  not  move  nor  raise  his  head.  She  waited 
for  him  to  speak,  but  he  did  not. 

"  Well,"  she  said  with  a  sigh,  "  I  guess  I  must 
go.  Good-by,  Seth." 

The  lightkeeper  slowly  rose  to  his  feet.  "  Erne- 
line,"  he  stammered,  "  you  ain't  goin'  with 
out " 

240 


THE    LETTER   AND   THE    'PHONE 

He  stopped  without  finishing  the  sentence.  She 
waited  a  moment  and  then  finished  it  for  him. 

"  I'll  answer  your  question,  if  that's  what  you 
mean,"  she  said.  "  And  the  answer  is  no.  All 
things  considered,  I  guess  that's  best." 

"  But  Emeline,  I— I " 

"  Good-by,  Seth." 

"  Sha'n't  I,"  desperately,  "  sha'n't  I  see  you 
again?  " 

"  I  expect  to  be  around  here  for  another  day  or 
so.  But  I  can't  see  anythin'  to  be  gained  by  our 
meetin'.  Good-by." 

Taking  her  letter  and  those  addressed  to  Miss 
Graham  from  the  table  she  went  out  of  the  kitchen. 
Seth  followed  her  as  far  as  the  door,  then  turned 
and  collapsed  in  the  rocking-chair. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

"  JOHN   BROWN  "    CHANGES    HIS   NAME 

SO   we   shall   soon  be   together   again   as   of 
old.     Your  loving  brother,  Benjamin." 

The  sentence  which  had  met  his  eyes 
as  he  picked  up  the  note  which  his  caller  had 
dropped  was  still  before  them,  burned  into  his 
memory.  Benjamin  !  "  Bennie  D."  !  the  loathed 
and  feared  and  hated  Bennie  D.,  cause  of  all  the 
Bascom  matrimonial  heartbreaks,  had  written  to 
say  that  he  and  his  sister-in-law  were  soon  to  be  to 
gether  as  they  used  to  be.  That  meant  that  there 
had  been  no  quarrel,  but  merely  a  temporary  sep 
aration.  That  she  and  he  were  still  friendly.  That 
they  had  been  in  correspondence  and  that  the  "  in 
ventor  "  was  coming  back  to  take  his  old  place  as 
autocrat  in  the  household  with  all  his  old  influence 
over  Emeline.  Seth's  new-found  courage  and  man 
hood  had  vanished  at  the  thought.  Bennie  D.'s 
name  had  scarcely  been  mentioned  during  the  vari- 

242 


"BROWN'     CHANGES    HIS    NAME 

ous  interviews  between  the  lightkeeper  and  his 
wife.  She  had  said  her  first  husband's  brother  had 
been  in  New  York  for  two  years,  and  her  manner 
of  saying  it  led  Seth  to  imagine  a  permanent  sepa 
ration  following  some  sort  of  disagreement.  And 
now  !  and  now !  He  remembered  Bennie  D.'s  supe 
rior  airs,  his  polite  sneers,  his  way  of  turning  every 
trick  to  his  advantage  and  of  perverting  and  mis 
representing  his,  Seth's,  most  innocent  speech  and 
action  into  crimes  of  the  first  magnitude.  He  re 
membered  the  meaning  of  those  last  few  months  in 
the  Cape  Ann  homestead.  All  his  fiery  determina 
tion  to  be  what  he  had  once  been — Seth  Bascom, 
the  self-respecting  man  and  husband — collapsed 
and  vanished.  He  groaned  in  abject  surrender. 
He  could  not  go  through  it  again;  he  was  afraid. 
Of  any  other  person  on  earth  he  would  not  have 
been,  but  the  unexpected  resurrection  of  Bennie  D. 
made  him  a  hesitating  coward.  Therefore  he  was 
silent  when  his  wife  left  him,  and  he  realized  that 
his  opportunity  was  gone,  gone  forever. 

In  utter  misery  and  self-hatred  he  sat,  with  his 
head  in  his  hands,  beside  the  kitchen  table  until 
eleven  o'clock.  Then  he  rose,  got  dinner,  and 
called  Brown  to  eat  it.  He  ate  nothing  himself, 
saying  that  he'd  lost  his  appetite  somehow  or  other. 

243 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

After  the  meal  he  harnessed  Joshua  to  the  little 
wagon  and  started  on  his  drive  to  Eastboro.  "  I'll 
be  back  early,  I  cal'late,"  were  his  last  words  as  he 
drove  out  of  the  yard. 

After  he  had  gone,  and  Brown  had  finished  clear 
ing  away  and  the  other  housekeeping  tasks  which 
were  now  such  a  burden,  the  substitute  assistant 
went  out  to  sit  on  the  bench  and  smoke.  The 
threatened  easterly  wind  had  begun  to  blow,  and  the 
sky  was  dark  with  tumbling  clouds.  The  young 
man  paid  little  attention  to  the  weather,  however. 
All  skies  were  gloomy  so  far  as  he  was  concerned, 
and  the  darkest  day  was  no  blacker  than  his 
thoughts.  Occasionally  he  glanced  at  the  bungalow, 
and  on  one  such  occasion  was  surprised  to  see  a  car 
riage,  one  of  the  turnouts  supplied  by  the  Eastboro 
livery  stable,  roll  up  to  its  door  and  Mrs.  Bas- 
com,  the  housekeeper,  emerge,  climb  to  the  seat 
beside  the  driver,  and  be  driven  away  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  village.  He  idly  wondered  where  she 
was  going,  but  was  not  particularly  interested. 
When,  a  half  hour  later,  Ruth  Graham  left  the 
bungalow  and  strolled  off  along  the  path  at  the  top 
of  the  bluff,  he  was  very  much  interested  indeed. 
He  realized,  as  he  had  been  realizing  for  weeks, 
that  he  was  more  interested  in  that  young  woman 

244 


than  in  anything  else  on  earth.  Also,  that  he  had 
no  right — miserable  outcast  that  he  was — to  be 
interested  in  her;  and  certainly  it  would  be  the 
wildest  insanity  to  imagine  that  she  could  be  in 
terested  in  him. 

For  what  the  lightkeeper  might  say  or  do,  in 
the  event  of  his  secret  being  discovered,  he  did  not 
care  in  the  least.  He  was  long  past  that  point. 
And  for  the  breaking  of  their  solemn  compact  he 
did  not  care  either.  Seth  might  or  might  not  have 
played  the  traitor;  that,  too,  was  a  matter  of  no 
importance.  Seth  himself  was  of  no  importance; 
neither  was  he.  There  was  but  one  important  per 
son  in  the  whole  world,  and  she  was  strolling  along 
the  bluff  path  at  that  moment.  Therefore  he  left 
his  seat  on  the  bench,  hurried  down  the  slope  to 
the  inner  end  of  the  cove,  noting  absently  that  the 
tide  of  the  previous  night  must  have  been  unusu 
ally  high,  climbed  to  the  bungalow,  turned  the 
corner,  and  walked  slowly  in  the  direction  of  the 
trim  figure  in  the  blue  suit,  which  was  walking, 
even  more  slowly,  just  ahead  of  him. 

It  may  be  gathered  that  John  Brown's  feelings 

concerning  the  opposite  sex  had  changed.     They 

had,  and  he  had  changed  in  other  ways,  also.   How 

much  of  a  change  had  taken  place  he  did  not  him- 

17  245 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

self  realize,  until  this  very  afternoon.  He  did  not 
realize  it  even  then  until,  after  he  and  the  girl  in 
blue  had  met,  and  the  customary  expressions  of  sur 
prise  at  their  casual  meeting  had  been  exchanged, 
the  young  lady  seated  herself  on  a  dune  overlook 
ing  the  tumbling  sea  and  observed  thoughtfully: 

"  I  shall  miss  all  this  " — with  a  wave  of  her 
hand  toward  the  waves — "  next  week,  when  I  am 
back  again  in  the  city." 

Brown's  cap  was  in  his  hand  as  she  began  to 
speak.  After  she  had  finished  he  stooped  to  pick 
up  the  cap,  which  had  fallen  to  the  ground. 

'You  are  going  away — next  week?"  he  said 
slowly. 

'  We  are  going  to-morrow.  I  shall  remain  in 
Boston  for  a  few  days.  Then  I  shall  visit  a  friend 
in  the  Berkshires.  After  that  I  may  join  my 
brother  in  Europe;  I'm  not  sure  as  to  that." 

"  To-morrow?  " 

"Yes!" 

There  was  another  one  of  those  embarrassing 
intervals  of  silence  which  of  late  seemed  to  occur 
so  often  in  their  conversation.  Miss  Graham,  as 
usual,  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Mr.  Brown,"  she  began.  The  substitute  as 
sistant  interrupted  her. 

246 


"BROWN"    CHANGES    HIS   NAME 

"  Please  don't  call  me  that,"  he  blurted  in 
voluntarily.  "  It — oh,  confound  it,  it  isn't  my 
name !  " 

She  should  have  been  very  much  surprised.  He 
expected  her  to  be.  Instead  she  answered  quite 
calmly. 

"  I  know  it,"  she  said. 

"You  do?" 

"Yes.     You  are  '  Russ '  Brooks,  aren't  you?" 

Russell  Brooks,  alias  John  Brown,  dropped  his 
cap  again,  but  did  not  pick  it  up.  He  swallowed 
hard. 

"  How  on  earth  did  you  know  that?  "  he  asked 
as  soon  as  he  could  say  anything. 

"  Oh,  it  was  simple  enough.  I  didn't  really 
know;  I  only  guessed.  You  weren't  a  real  light- 
keeper,  that  was  plain.  And  you  weren't  used  to 
washing  dishes  or  doing  housework — that,"  with 
the  irrepressible  curl  of  the  corners  of  her  lips, 
"  was  just  as  plain.  When  you  told  me  that  fib 
about  meeting  my  brother  here  last  summer  I  was 
sure  you  had  met  him  somewhere,  probably  at  col 
lege.  So  in  my  next  letter  to  him  I  described  you 
as  well  as  I  could,  mentioned  that  you  were  as  good 
or  a  better  swimmer  than  he,  and  asked  for  par 
ticulars.  He  answered  that  the  only  fellow  he 

247 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

could  think  of  who  fitted  your  description  was 
'  Russ  '  Brooks — Russell,  I  suppose — of  New 
York;  though  what  Russ  Brooks  was  doing  as 
lightkeeper's  assistant  at  Eastboro  Twin-Lights 
he  didn't  know.  Neither  did  I.  But  then,  that 
was  not  my  business." 

The  substitute  assistant  did  not  answer:  he 
could  not,  on  such  short  notice. 

"  So,"  continued  the  girl,  "  I  felt  almost  as  if 
I  had  known  you  for  a  long  time.  You  and 
Horace  were  such  good  friends  at  college,  and  he 
had  often  told  me  of  you.  I  was  very  glad  to  meet 
you  in  real  life,  especially  here,  where  I  had  no 
one  but  Mrs.  Bascom  to  talk  to;  Mr.  Atkins,  by 
reason  of  his  aversion  to  my  unfortunate  sex,  being 
barred." 

Mr.  Brown's — or  Mr.  Brooks' — next  speech 
harked  back  to  her  previous  one. 

"  I'll  tell  you  while  I'm  here,"  he  began. 

"  You  needn't,  unless  you  wish,"  she  said.  "  I 
have  no  right  to  know  " — adding,  with  character 
istic  femininity,  "  though  I'm  dying  to." 

"  But  I  want  you  to  know.  As  I  told  Atkins 
when  I  first  came,  I  haven't  murdered  anyone  and 
I  haven't  stolen  anything.  I'm  not  a  crook  run 
ning  from  justice.  I'm  just  a  plain  idiot  who  fell 

248 


"  BROWN  "    CHANGES    HIS    NAME 

overboard     from     a     steamer    and " — bitterly — 
"  hadn't  the  good  luck  to  drown." 

She  made  no  comment,  and  he  began  his  story, 
telling  it  much  as  he  had  told  it  to  the  lightkeeper. 

"  There !  "  he  said  in  conclusion,  "  that's  the 
whole  fool  business.  That's  why  I'm  here.  No 
need  to  ask  what  you  think  of  it,  I  suppose." 

She  was  silent,  gazing  at  the  breakers.  He 
drew  his  own  conclusions  from  her  silence. 

"  I  see,"  he  said.  "  Well,  I  admit  it.  I'm  a 
low  down  chump.  Still,  if  I  had  it  to  do  over 
again,  I  should  do  pretty  much  the  same.  A  few 
things  differently,  but  in  general  the  very  same." 

"What  would  you  do  differently?"  she  asked, 
still  without  looking  at  him. 

"  For  one  thing,  I  wouldn't  run  away.  I'd  stay 
and  face  the  music.  Earn  my  living  or  starve." 

"  And  now  you're  going  to  stay  here?  " 

"  No  longer  than  I  can  help.  If  I  get  the  ap 
pointment  as  assistant  keeper  I'll  begin  to  save 
every  cent  I  can.  Just  as  soon  as  I  get  enough  to 
warrant  risking  it  I'll  head  for  Boston  once  more 
and  begin  the  earning  or  starving  process. 
And,"  with  a  snap  of  his  jaws,  "  I  don't  intend 
to  starve." 

"  You  won't  go  back  to  your  father?  " 
249 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  If  he  sees  fit  to  beg  my  pardon  and  acknowl 
edge  that  I  was  right — not  otherwise.  And  he 
must  do  it  of  his  own  accord.  I  told  him  that 
when  I  walked  out  of  his  office.  It  was  my  con 
tribution  to  our  fond  farewell.  His  was  that  he 
would  see  me  damned  first.  Possibly  he  may." 

She  smiled. 

'  You  must  have  been  a  charming  pair  of  pep 
per  pots,"  she  observed.  "  And  the  young  lady — 
what  of  her?  " 

"  She  knows  that  I  am  fired,  cut  off  even  with 
out  the  usual  shilling.  That  will  be  quite  suf 
ficient  for  her,  I  think." 

"  How  do  you  know  it  will?  How  do  you  know 
she  might  not  have  been  willing  to  wait  while  you 
earned  that  living  you  are  so  sure  is  coming?  " 

;'  Wart?  She  wait  for  me?  Ann  Davidson  wait 
for  a  man  without  a  cent  while  he  tried  to  earn  a 
good  many  dollars?  Humph!  you  amuse  me." 

"Why  not?  You  didn't  give  her  a  chance. 
You  calmly  took  it  for  granted  that  she  wanted 
only  money  and  social  position  and  you  walked  off 
and  left  her.  How  do  you  know  she  wouldn't 
have  liked  you  better  for  telling  her  just  how  you 
felt.  If  a  girl  really  cared  for  a  man  it  seems  to 
me  that  she  would  be  willing  to  wait  for  him,  years 

250 


"BROWN'     CHANGES    HIS    NAME 

and  years  if  it  were  necessary,  provided  that,  dur 
ing  that  time,  he  was  trying  his  best  for  her." 

"  But — but — she  isn't  that  kind  of  a  girl." 

"  How  do  you  know?  You  didn't  put  her  to 
the  test.  You  owed  her  that.  It  seems  to  me  you 
owe  it  to  her  now." 

The  answer  to  this  was  on  his  tongue.  It  was 
ready  behind  his  closed  lips,  eager  to  burst  forth. 
That  he  didn't  love  the  Davidson  girl,  never  had 
loved  her.  That  during  the  past  month  he  had 
come  to  realize  there  was  but  one  woman  in  the 
wide  world  for  him.  And  did  that  woman  mean 
what  she  said  about  waiting  years — and  years — 
provided  she  cared?  And  did  she  care? 

He  didn't  utter  one  word  of  this.  He  wanted 
to,  but  it  seemed  so  preposterous.  Such  an  idiotic, 
outrageous  thing  to  ask.  Yet  it  is  probable  that 
he  would  have  asked  it  if  the  young  lady  had  given 
him  the  chance.  But  she  did  not;  after  a  side 
long  glance  at  his  face,  she  hurriedly  rose  from  the 
rock  and  announced  that  she  must  be  getting  back 
to  the  house. 

"  I  have  some  packing  to  do,"  she  explained; 
"  and,  besides,  I  think  it  is  going  to  rain." 

"  But,  Miss  Graham,  I " 

A  big  drop  of  rain  splashing  upon  his  shoe  con- 
251 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

firmed  the  weather  prophecy.  She  began  to  walk 
briskly  toward  the  bungalow,  and  he  walked  at  her 
side. 

"Another  storm,"  she  said.  "I  should  think 
the  one  we  have  just  passed  through  was  sufficient 
for  a  while.  I  hope  Mrs.  Bascom  won't  get  wet." 

"  She  has  gone  to  the  village,  hasn't  she?  " 

"  Yes.  She  has  received  some  message  or 
other — I  don't  know  how  it  came — which  sent  her 
off  in  a  hurry.  A  livery  carriage  came  for  her. 
She  will  be  back  before  night." 

"  Atkins  has  gone,  too.  He  had  some  errands, 
I  believe.  I  can't  make  out  what  has  come  over 
him  of  late.  He  has  changed  greatly.  He  used 
to  be  so  jolly  and  good-humored,  except  when  fe 
male  picnickers  came.  Now  he  is  as  solemn  as  an 
owl.  When  he  went  away  he  scarcely  spoke  a 
word.  I  thought  he  seemed  to  be  in  trouble,  but 
when  I  asked  him,  he  shut  me  up  so  promptly  that 
I  didn't  press  the  matter." 

"  Did  he?  That's  odd.  Mrs.  Bascom  seemed 
to  be  in  trouble,  too.  I  thought  she  had  been  cry 
ing  when  she  came  out  of  her  room  to  go  to  the 
carriage.  She  denied  it,  but  her  eyes  looked  red. 
What  can  be  the  matter?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

252 


"BROWN'     CHANGES    HIS    NAME 

"  Nor  I.  Mr.— er— Brooks—  Or  shall  I  still 
call  you  '  Brown  '?  " 

"  No.  Brown  is  dead;  drowned.  Let  him  stay 
so." 

'  Very  well.  Mr.  Brooks,  has  it  occurred  to 
you  that  your  Mr.  Atkins  is  a  peculiar  character? 
That  he  acts  peculiarly?" 

"  He  has  acted  peculiarly  ever  since  I  knew  him. 
But  to  what  particular  peculiarity  do  you  refer?  " 

"  His  queer  behavior.  Several  times  I  have 
seen  him — I  am  almost  sure  it  was  he — hiding  or 
crouching  behind  the  sand  hills  at  the  rear  of  our 
bungalow." 

"You  have?    Why,  I " 

He  hesitated.  Before  he  could  go  on  or  she 
continue,  the  rain  came  in  a  deluge.  They  reached 
the  porch  just  in  time. 

"  Well,  I'm  safe  and  reasonably  dry,"  she 
panted.  "  I'm  afraid  you  will  be  drenched  before 
you  get  to  the  lights.  Don't  you  want  an  um 
brella?" 

"  No.     No,  indeed,  thank  you." 

"  Well,  you  must  hurry  then.     Good-by." 

"  But,  Miss  Graham,"  anxiously,  "  I  shall  see 
you  again  before  you  go.  To-morrow,  at  bathing 
time,  perhaps?  " 

253 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  Judging  by  the  outlook  just  at  present,  bath 
ing  will  be  out  of  the  question  to-morrow." 

"  But  I  want  to  see  you.     I  must." 

She  shook  her  head  doubtfully.  "  I  don't 
know,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  be  very  busy  get 
ting  ready  to  leave;  but  perhaps  we  may  meet 
again." 

"  We  must.     I— Miss  Graham,  I " 

She  had  closed  the  door.  He  ran  homeward 
through  the  rain,  the  storm  which  soaked  him 
to  the  skin  being  but  a  trifle  compared  to  the  tor 
nado  in  his  breast. 

He  spent  the  balance  of  the  day  somehow,  he 
could  not  have  told  how.  The  rain  and  wind  con 
tinued;  six  o'clock  came,  and  Seth  should  have  re 
turned  an  hour  before,  but  there  was  no  sign  of 
him.  He  wondered  if  Mrs.  Bascom  had  re 
turned.  He  had  not  seen  the  carriage,  but  she 
might  have  come  while  he  was  inside  the  house. 
The  lightkeeper's  nonappearance  began  to  worry 
him  a  trifle. 

At  seven,  as  it  was  dark,  he  took  upon  himself 
the  responsibility  of  climbing  the  winding  stairs 
in  each  tower  and  lighting  the  great  lanterns.  It 
was  the  first  time  he  had  done  it,  but  he  knew 
how,  and  the  duty  was  successfully  accomplished. 

254 


"BROWN'     CHANGES    HIS    NAME 

Then,  as  Atkins  was  still  absent  and  there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  wait,  he  sat  in  the  chair  in  the 
kitchen  and  thought.  Occasionally,  and  it  showed 
the  trend  of  his  thoughts,  he  rose  and  peered  from 
the  window  across  the  dark  to  the  bungalow.  In 
the  living  room  of  the  latter  structure  a  light 
burned.  At  ten  it  was  extinguished. 

At  half  past  ten  he  went  to  Seth's  bedroom, 
found  a  meager  assortment  of  pens,  ink  and  note 
paper,  returned  to  the  kitchen,  sat  down  by  the 
table  and  began  to  write. 

For  an  hour  he  thought,  wrote,  tore  up  what 
he  had  written,  and  began  again.  At  last  the  re 
sult  of  his  labor  read  something  like  this: 

"  DEAR  Miss  GRAHAM: 

"  I  could  not  say  it  this  afternoon,  although  if 
you  had  stayed  I  think  I  should.  But  I  must  say 
it  now  or  it  may  be  too  late.  I  can't  let  you  go 
without  saying  it.  I  love  you.  Will  you  wait  for 
me  ?  It  may  be  a  very  long  wait,  although  God 
knows  I  mean  to  try  harder  than  I  have  ever  tried 
for  anything  in  my  life.  If  I  live  I  will  make  some 
thing  of  myself  yet,  with  you  as  my  inspiration. 
You  know  you  said  if  a  girl  really  cared  for  a  man 
she  would  willingly  wait  years  for  him.  Do  you 

255 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

care  for  me  as  much  as  that?  With  you,  or  for 
you,  I  believe  I  can  accomplish  anything.  Do  you 
care? 

"  RUSSELL  BROOKS." 

He  put  this  in  an  envelope,  sealed  and  ad 
dressed  it,  and  without  stopping  to  put  on  either 
cap  or  raincoat  went  out  in  the  night. 

The  rain  was  still  falling,  although  not  as  heav 
ily,  but  the  wind  was  coming  in  fierce  squalls.  He 
descended  the  path  to  the  cove,  floundering 
through  the  wet  bushes.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill  he 
was  surprised  to  find  the  salt  marsh  a  sea  of  water 
not  a  vestige  of  ground  above  the  surface.  This 
was  indeed  a  record-breaking  tide,  such  as  he  had 
never  known  before.  He  did  not  pause  to  reflect 
upon  tides  or  such  trivialities,  but,  with  a  growl 
at  being  obliged  to  make  the  long  detour,  he 
rounded  the  end  of  the  cove  and  climbed  up  to 
the  door  of  the  bungalow.  Under  the  edge  of  that 
door  he  tucked  the  note  he  had  written.  As  soon 
as  this  was  accomplished  he  became  aware  that  he 
had  expressed  himself  very  clumsily.  He  had  not 
written  as  he  might.  A  dozen  brilliant  thoughts 
came  to  him.  He  must  rewrite  that  note  at  all 
hazards. 

256 


"BROWN"    CHANGES    HIS   NAME 

So  he  spent  five  frantic  minutes  trying  to  coax 
that  envelope  from  under  the  door.  But,  in  his 
care  to  push  it  far  enough,  it  had  dropped  beyond 
the  sill,  and  he  could  not  reach  it.  The  thing  was 
done  for  better  or  for  worse.  Perfectly  certain 
that  it  was  for  worse,  he  splashed  mournfully  back 
to  the  lights.  In  the  lantern  room  of  the  right- 
hand  tower  he  spent  the  remainder  of  the  night, 
occasionally  wandering  out  on  the  gallery  to  note 
the  weather. 

The  storm  was  dying  out.  The  squalls  were  less 
and  less  frequent,  and  the  rain  had  been  succeeded 
by  a  thick  fog.  The  breakers  pounded  in  the  dark 
below  him,  and  from  afar  the  foghorns  moaned 
and  wailed.  It  was  a  bad  night,  a  night  during 
which  no  lightkeeper  should  be  absent  from  his 
post.  And  where  was  Seth? 


CHAPTER    XIV 

"  BENNIE    D." 

SETH'S   drive   to   Eastboro   was   a    dismal 
journey.     Joshua  pounded  along  over  the 
wet  sand  or  through  ruts  filled  with  water, 
and  not  once  during  the  trip  was  he  ordered  to 
"  Giddap  "  or  "  Show  some  signs  of  life."     Not 
until  the  first  scattered  houses  of  the  village  were 
reached    did    the    lightkeeper    awaken    from    his 
trance  sufficiently  to  notice  that  the  old  horse  was 
limping  slightly  with  the  right  forefoot. 

"  Hello !  "  exclaimed  Seth.  "  What's  the  mat 
ter  with  you,  Josh?  " 

Joshua  slopped  on,  but  this  was  a  sort  of  three- 
legged  progress.  The  driver  leaned  forward  and 
then  pulled  on  the  reins. 

"  Whoa !  "  he  ordered.     "  Stand  still !  " 
Joshua    stood    still,    almost    with    enthusiasm. 
Seth  tucked  the  end  of  the  reins  between  the  whip 
socket  and  the  dashboard,  and  swung  out  of  the 

258 


'BENNIE    D." 

wagon  to  make  an  examination.  Lifting  the  lame 
foot,  he  found  the  trouble  at  once.  The  shoe  was 
loose. 

"Humph!"  he  soliloquized.  "  Cal'late  you 
and  me '11  have  to  give  Benijah  a  job.  Well," 
climbing  back  into  the  vehicle,  "  I  said  I'd  never 
give  him  another  after  the  row  we  had  about  the 
last,  but  I  ain't  got  ambition  enough  to  go  clear 
over  to  the  Denboro  blacksmith's.  /  don't  care. 
I  don't  care  about  nothin'  any  more.  Giddap." 

Benijah  Ellis's  little,  tumble-down  blacksmith 
shop  was  located  in  the  main  street  of  Eastboro, 
if  that  hit-or-miss  town  can  be  said  to  possess  a 
main  street.  Atkins  drove  up  to  its  door,  before 
which  he  found  Benijah  and  a  group  of  loungers 
inspecting  an  automobile,  the  body  of  which  had 
been  removed  in  order  that  the  engine  and  run 
ning  gear  might  be  the  easier  reached.  The 
blacksmith  was  bending  over  the  car,  his  head 
and  shoulders  down  amidst  the  machinery;  a  big 
wrench  was  in  his  hand,  and  other  wrenches,  ham 
mers,  and  tools  of  various  sizes  were  scattered 
on  the  ground  beside  him. 

"  Hello,  Benije,"  grunted  Seth. 

Ellis  removed  his  nose  from  its  close  prox 
imity  to  the  gear  shaft  and  straightened  up.  He 

259 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

was  a  near-sighted,  elderly  man,  and  wore  spec 
tacles.  Just  now  his  hands,  arms,  and  apron 
were  covered  with  grease  and  oil,  and,  as  he 
wiped  his  forehead  with  the  hand  not  holding 
the  wrench,  he  left  a  wide  mourning  band 
across  it. 

"Well?"  he  panted.  "Who  is  it?  Who 
wants  me?  " 

One  of  the  loafers,  who  had  been  assisting  the 
blacksmith  by  holding  his  pipe  while  he  dove  into 
the  machinery,  languidly  motioned  toward  the 
new  arrival.  Benijah  adjusted  his  spectacles  and 
walked  over  to  the  wagon. 

'Who  is  it?"  he  asked  crossly.  Then,  as  he 
recognized  his  visitor,  he  grunted:  "Ugh!  it's 
you,  hey  Well,  what  do  you  want?  " 

'  Want  you  to  put  a  new  shoe  on  this  horse  of 
mine,"  replied  Seth,  not  too  graciously. 

"Is  that  so!     Well,   I'm  busy." 

"  I  don't  care  if  you  be.  I  guess  you  ain't  so 
busy  you  can't  do  a  job  of  work.  If  you  are, 
you're  richer'n  I  ever  heard  you  was." 

"  I  want  to  know!  Maybe  I'm  particular  who 
I  work  for,  Seth  Atkins." 

"  Maybe  you  are.  I  ain't  so  particular;  if  I 
was,  I  wouldn't  come  here,  I  tell  you  that.  This 

260 


"BENNIE    D." 

horse  of  mine's  got  a  loose  shoe,  and  I  want  him 
attended  to  quick." 

'  Thought  you  said  you'd  never  trust  me  with 
another  job." 

"  I  ain't  trustin'  you  now.  I'll  be  here  while 
it's  done.  And  I  ain't  askin'  you  to  trust  me, 
neither.  I'll  pay  cash — cash,  d'ye  understand?" 

The  bystanders  grinned.  Mr.  Ellis's  frown 
deepened.  ''  I'm  busy,"  he  declared,  with  im 
portance.  "  I've  got  Mr.  Delancey  Barry's  au 
tomobile  to  fix,  and  I  can't  stop  to  bother  with 
horses — specially  certain  kind  of  horses." 

This  sneer  at  Joshua  roused  his  owner's  ire. 
He  dropped  the  reins  and  sprang  to  the  ground. 

"  See  here,  Benije  Ellis,"  he  growled,  advanc 
ing  upon  the  repairer  of  automobiles,  who  re 
treated  a  step  or  two  with  promptness.  "  I  don't 
care  what  you're  fixin',  nor  whose  it  is,  neither. 
I  guess  'twill  be  '  fixed '  all  right  when  you  get 
through  with  it,  but  that  ain't  neither  here  nor 
there.  And  it  don't  make  no  difference  if  it  does 
belong  to  Mr.  Barry.  If  'twas  Elijah's  chariot 
of  fire  'twould  be  just  the  same.  That  auto  won't 
be  done  this  afternoon,  and  nobody  expects  it  to 
be.  Here's  my  horse  sufferin'  to  be  shod;  I  want 
him  shod  and  I've  got  the  money  to  pay  for  it. 
is  261 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

When  it's  winter  time  you're  around  cryin'  that 
you  can't  earn  money  to  pay  your  bills.  Now, 
just  because  it's  summer  and  there's  city  big- 
bugs  in  the  neighborhood  innocent  enough  to  let 
you  tinker  with  their  autos — though  they'll  never 
do  it  but  once — I  don't  propose  to  be  put  off.  If 
you  won't  shoe  this  horse  of  mine  I'll  know  it's 
because  you've  got  so  much  money  you  don't  need 
more.  And  if  that's  the  case,  there's  a  whole 
lot  of  folks  would  be  mighty  glad  to  know  it — 
Henry  G.  Goodspeed  for  one.  I'm  goin'  up  to 
his  store  now.  Shall  I  tell  him?" 

This  was  a  shot  in  the  bull's-eye.  Mr.  Ellis 
owed  a  number  of  bills,  had  owed  them  for  a 
long  time,  and  Mr.  Goodspeed's  was  by  no 
means  the  smallest.  The  loafers  exchanged 
winks,  and  the  blacksmith's  manner  became  more 
conciliatory. 

"  I  didn't  say  I  wouldn't  do  it  for  you,  Seth," 
he  pleaded.  "  I'm  always  willin'  to  do  your 
work.  You're  the  one  that's  been  complainin'." 

"Ugh!  Well,  I'm  likely  to  complain  some 
more,  but  the  complaint's  one  thing,  and  the 
need's  another.  I'm  like  Joel  Knowles — he  said 
when  he  couldn't  get  whisky  he  worried  along 
best  he  could  with  bay  rum.  I  need  a  blacksmith, 

262 


"BENNIE    D." 

and  if  I  can't  get  a  real  one  I'll  put  up  with  an 
imitation.  Will  you  shoe  this  horse  for  me?" 

"  Course  I'll  shoe  him.  But  I  can't  do  it  this 
minute.  I've  got  this  consarned  machine,"  wav 
ing  a  hand  toward  the  automobile,  "  out  of  door 
here  and  all  to  pieces.  And  it's  goin'  to  rain. 
Just  let  me  put  enough  of  it  together  so's  I  can 
shove  it  into  the  shop  out  of  the  wet,  and  then 
I'll  tackle  your  job.  You  leave  your  horse  and 
team  here  and  go  do  your  other  errands.  He'll 
be  ready  when  you  come  back." 

So  on  this  basis  the  deal  was  finally  made. 
Seth  was  reluctant  to  trust  the  precious  Joshua 
out  of  his  sight,  but,  after  some  parley,  he  agreed 
to  do  so.  The  traces  were  unfastened,  and  the 
animal  was  led  into  the  shop,  the  carriage  was 
backed  under  a  shed,  and  the  lightkeeper  went 
away  promising  to  be  back  in  an  hour.  As  soon 
as  he  had  gone,  Ellis  dived  again  into  the  vitals 
of  the  auto. 

The  argument  with  the  blacksmith  had  one 
satisfactory  result  so  far  as  Seth  was  concerned. 
In  a  measure  it  afforded  a  temporary  vent  for 
his  feelings.  He  was  moderately  agreeable  dur 
ing  his  brief  stay  at  the  grocery  store,  and  when 
his  orders  were  given  and  he  found  the  hour 

263 


THE   WOMAN-HATERS 

not  half  over,  he  strolled  out  to  walk  about  the 
village.  And  then,  alone  once  more,  all  his  mis 
ery  and  heartache  returned.  He  strode  along, 
his  head  down,  scarcely  speaking  to  acquaintances 
whom  he  met,  until  he  reached  the  railway  sta 
tion,  where  he  sat  down  on  the  baggage  truck  to 
mentally  review,  over  and  over  again,  the  scene 
with  Emeline  and  the  dreadful  collapse  of  his  new 
born  hopes  and  plans. 

As  he  sat  there,  the  door  of  the  station  opened 
and  a  man  emerged,  a  man  evidently  not  a  native 
of  Eastboro.  He  was  dressed  in  a  rather  loud, 
but  somewhat  shabby,  suit  of  summer  plaid,  his 
straw  hat  was  set  a  trifle  over  one  ear,  and  he 
was  smoking  the  stump  of  a  not  too  fragrant 
cigar.  Altogether  he  looked  like  a  sporting  char 
acter  under  a  temporary  financial  cloud,  but  the 
cloud  did  not  dim  his  self-satisfaction  nor  shadow 
his  magnificent  complaisance.  He  regarded  the 
section  of  Eastboro  before  him  with  condescend 
ing  scorn,  and  then,  catching  sight  of  the  doleful 
figure  on  the  baggage  truck,  strolled  over  and  ad 
dressed  it. 

"  I  say,  my  friend,"  he  observed  briskly,  "  have 
you  a  match  concealed  about  your  person?  If 

so,  I " 

264 


"BENNIE    D." 

\ 

He  stopped  short,  for  Mr.  Atkins,  after  one 
languid  glance  in  his  direction,  had  sprung  from 
the  truck  and  was  gazing  at  him  as  if  he  was 
some  apparition,  some  figure  in  a  nightmare,  in 
stead  of  his  blase  self.  And  he,  as  he  looked  at 
the  lightkeeper's  astounded  countenance,  dropped 
the  cigar  stump  from  his  fingers  and  stepped 
backward  in  alarmed  consternation. 

'  You — you — you?  "  gasped  Seth. 

'  You!  "   repeated  the  stranger. 

'  Youl  "  cried  Seth  again;  not  a  brilliant  nor 
original  observation,  but,  under  the  circumstances, 
excusable,  for  the  nonchalant  person  in  the  plaid 
suit  was  Emeline  Bascom's  brother-in-law,  the 
genius,  the  "  inventor,"  the  one  person  whom  he 
hated — and  feared — more  than  anyone  else  in 
the  world — Bennie  D.  himself. 

There  was  a  considerable  interval  during  which 
neither  of  the  pair  spoke.  Seth,  open-mouthed 
and  horror-stricken,  was  incapable  of  speech,  and 
the  inventor's  astonishment  seemed  to  be  coupled 
with  a  certain  nervousness,  almost  as  if  he  feared 
a  physical  assault.  However,  as  the  lightkeeper 
made  no  move,  and  his  fists  remained  open,  the 
nervousness  disappeared,  and  Bennie  D.  character 
istically  took  command  of  the  situation. 

265 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"Hum!"  he  observed  musingly.  "Hum! 
May  I  ask  what  you  are  doing  here?  " 

"  Huh — hey?  "  was  Seth's  incoherent  reply. 

"  I  ask  what  you  are  doing  here?  Have  you 
followed  me?  " 

44  Fol-follered  you?     No." 

'  You're  sure  of  that,  are  you?  " 

'  Yes,  I  be."  Seth  did  not  ask  what  Bennie 
D.  was  doing  there.  Already  that  question  was 
settled  in  his  mind.  The  brother-in-law  had  found 
out  that  Emeline  was  living  next  door  to  the  man 
she  married,  that  her  summer  engagement  was 
over,  and  he  had  come  to  take  her  away. 

'Well?"  queried  the  inventor  sharply,  "if 
you  haven't  followed  me,  what  are  you  doing 
here?  What  do  you  mean  by  being  here?  " 

"  I  belong  here,"  desperately.     "  I  work  here." 

"You  do?  And  may  I  ask  what  particular 
being  is  fortunate  enough  to  employ  you?  " 

"  I'm  keeper  down  to  the  lighthouses,  if 
you  want  to  know.  But  I  cal'late  you  know  it 
already." 

Bennie  D.'s  coolness  was  not  proof  against 
this.  He  started. 

"The  lighthouses?"  he  repeated.  'The — 
what  is  it  they  call  them? — the  Twin-Lights?" 

266 


'BENNIE    D." 

'  Yes.     You  know  it;  what's  the  use  of  askin' 
fool  questions?  " 

The  inventor  had  not  known  it — until  that  mo 
ment,  and  he  took  time  to  consider  before  making 
another  remark.  His  sister-in-law  was  employed 
as  housekeeper  at  some  bungalow  or  other  situ 
ated  in  close  proximity  to  the  Twin-Lights;  that 
he  had  discovered  since  his  arrival  on  the  morn 
ing  train.  Prior  to  that  he  had  known  only  that 
she  was  in  Eastboro  for  the  summer.  Before 
that  he  had  not  been  particularly  interested  in 
her  location.  Since  the  day,  two  years  past,  when, 
having  decided  that  he  had  used  her  and  her 
rapidly  depleting  supply  of  cash  as  long  as  was 
safe  or  convenient,  he  had  unceremoniously  left 
her  and  gone  to  New  York  to  live  upon  money 
supplied  by  a  credulous  city  gentleman,  whom  his 
smooth  tongue  had  interested  in  his  "  inventions," 
he  had  not  taken  the  trouble  even  to  write  to  Em- 
eline.  But  within  the  present  month  the  New 
Yorker's  credulity  and  his  "  loans  "  had  ceased 
to  be  material  assets.  Then  Bennie  D.,  face  to 
face  with  the  need  of  funds,  remembered  his  sis 
ter  and  the  promise  given  his  dead  brother  that 
he  should  be  provided  with  a  home  as  long  as  she 
had  one. 

267 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

He  journeyed  to  Cape  Ann  and  found,  to  his 
dismay,  that  she  was  no  longer  there.  After 
some  skillful  detective  work,  he  learned  of  the 
Eastboro  engagement  and  wrote  the  letter — a 
piteous,  appealing  letter,  full  of  brotherly  love 
and  homesickness — which,  held  back  by  the  storm, 
reached  Mrs.  Bascom  only  that  morning.  In  it 
he  stated  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  her  and  was 
counting  the  minutes  until  they  should  be  together 
once  more.  And  he  had,  as  soon  after  his  arrival 
in  the  village  as  possible,  'phoned  to  the  Lights 
and  spoken  with  her.  Her  tone,  as  she  answered, 
was,  he  thought,  alarmingly  cold.  It  had  made 
him  apprehensive,  and  he  wondered  if  his  in 
fluence  over  her  was  on  the  wane.  But  now 
— now  he  understood.  Her  husband — her  hus 
band,  of  all  people — had  been  living  next  door 
to  her  all  summer.  No  doubt  she  knew  he 
was  there  when  she  took  the  place.  Perhaps 
they  had  met  by  mutual  agreement.  Why, 
this  was  appalling!  It  might  mean  anything. 
And  yet  Seth  did  not  look  triumphant  or 
even  happy.  Bennie  D.  resolved  to  show  no 
signs  of  perturbation  or  doubt,  but  first  to 
find  out,  if  he  could,  the  truth,  and  then  to  act 
accordingly. 

268 


"BENNIE    D." 

"  Mr.  Bascom — "  he  began.  The  lightkeeper, 
greatly  alarmed,  interrupted  him. 

"Hush!"   he  whispered.      "Don't  say  that. 
That  ain't  my  name — down  here." 
'Indeed?     What  is  your  name?" 

"  Down  here  they  call  me  Seth  Atkins." 

Bennie  D.  looked  puzzled.  Then  his  expres 
sion  changed.  He  was  relieved.  When  he 
'phoned  to  the  Lights — using  the  depot  'phone — 
the  station  agent  had  seemed  to  consider  his  call 
ing  a  woman  over  the  lighthouse  wire  great  fun. 
The  lightkeeper,  so  the  agent  said,  was  named 
Atkins,  and  was  a  savage  woman-hater.  He 
would  not  see  a  woman,  much  less  speak  to  one; 
it  was  a  standing  joke  in  the  neighborhood,  Seth's 
hatred  of  females.  That  seemed  to  prove  that 
Emeline  and  her  husband  were  not  reconciled 
and  living  together,  at  least.  Possibly  their  being 
neighbors  was  merely  a  coincidence.  If  so,  he 
might  not  have  come  too  late.  When  he  next 
addressed  his  companion  it  was  in  a  different  tone 
and  without  the  "  Mister." 

"  Bascom — or — er — Atkins,"  he  said  sharply, 
"  I  hoped — I  sincerely  hoped  that  you  and  I 
might  not  meet  during  my  short  stay  here;  but, 
as  we  have  met,  I  think  it  best  that  we  should 

269 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

understand  each  other.  Suppose  we  walk  over 
to  that  clump  of  trees  on  the  other  side  of  the 
track.  We  shall  be  alone  there,  and  I  can  say 
what  is  necessary.  I  don't  wish — even  when  I 
remember  your  behavior  toward  my  sister — to 
humiliate  you  in  the  town  where  you  may  be  try 
ing  to  lead  a  better  life.  Come." 

He  led  the  way,  and  Seth,  yielding  as  of  old 
to  this  man's  almost  hypnotic  command  over  him 
and  still  bewildered  by  the  unexpected  meeting, 
followed  like  a  whipped  dog.  Under  the  shel 
ter  of  the  trees  they  paused. 

"  Now  then,"  said  Bennie  D.,  "  perhaps  you'll 
tell  me  what  you  mean  by  decoying  my  sister 
down  here  in  my  absence,  when  I  was  not  pres 
ent  to  protect  her.  What  do  you  mean  by  it?  " 

Seth  stared  at  him  uncomprehendingly.  "  De- 
coyin'  her?"  he  repeated.  "I  never  decoyed 
her.  I've  been  here  ever  since  I  left — left  you 
and  her  that  night.  I  never  asked  her  to  come. 
I  didn't  know  she  was  comin'.  And  she  didn't 
know  I  was  here  until — until  a  month  or  so  ago. 
I " 

Bennie  D.  held  up  a  hand.  He  was  delighted 
by  this  piece  of  news,  but  he  did  not  show  it. 

"  That  will  do,"  he  said.  "  I  understand  all 
270 


"BENNIE    D." 

that.  But  since  then — since  then?  What  do  you 
mean  by  trying  to  influence  her  as  you  have?  An 
swer  me !  " 

The  lightkeeper  rubbed  his  forehead. 

"  I  ain't  tried  to  influence  her,"  he  declared. 
"  She  and  me  have  scarcely  seen  each  other.  No 
body  knows  that  we  was  married,  not  even  Miss 
Graham  nor  the  young  feller  that's — that's  my 
helper  at  the  lights.  You  must  know  that.  She 
must  have  wrote  you.  What  are  you  talkin' 
about?" 

She  had  not  written;  he  had  received  no  letters 
from  her  during  the  two  years,  but  again  the 
wily  "  genius  "  was  equal  to  the  occasion.  He 
looked  wise  and  nodded. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said  importantly.  "  Of 
course.  Certainly." 

He  hesitated,  not  knowing  exactly  what  his 
next  move  should  be.  And  Seth,  having  had  time 
to  collect,  in  a  measure,  his  scattered  wits,  began 
to  do  some  thinking  on  his  own  account. 

"  Say,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  if  you  knew  all  this 
aforehand,  what  are  you  askin'  these  questions 
for?" 

"  That,"  Bennie  D.'s  gesture  was  one  of  lofty 
disdain,  "  is  my  business." 

271 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  I  want  to  know !  Well,  then,  maybe  I've  got 
some  business  of  my  own.  Who  made  my  busi 
ness  your  business?  Hey?" 

4  The  welfare  of  my  sister — 

"  Never  you  mind  your  sister.  You're  talk- 
in'  with  me  now.  And  you  ain't  got  me  penned 
up  in  a  house,  neither.  By  jiminy  crimps!  "  His 
anger  boiled  over,  and,  to  the  inventor's  eyes,  he 
began  to  look  alarmingly  alive.  "  By  jiminy 
crimps!"  repeated  Seth,  "I've  been  prayin'  all 
these  years  to  meet  you  somewheres  alone,  and 
now  I've  a  good  mind  to — to— 

His  big  fist  closed.  Bennie  D.  stepped  back 
ward  out  of  reach. 

"  Bascom— "  he  cried,  "  don't " 

"  Don't  you  call  me  that!  " 

"  Bascom —  The  inventor  was  thoroughly 
frightened,  and  his  voice  rose  almost  to  a  shout. 

The  lightkeeper's  wrath  vanished  at  the  sound 
of  the  name.  If  any  native  of  Eastboro,  if  the 
depot  master  on  the  other  side  of  the  track, 
should  hear  him  addressed  as  "  Bascom,"  the  fat 
would  be  in  the  fire  for  good  and  all.  The  secret 
he  had  so  jealously  guarded  would  be  out,  and  all 
the  miserable  story  would,  sooner  or  later,  be 
known. 

272 


"BENNIE    D." 

"  Don't  call  me  Bascom,"  he  begged.  Er — 
please  don't." 

Bennie  D.'s  courage  returned.  Yet  he  realized 
that  if  a  trump  card  was  to  be  played  it  must  be 
then.  This  man  was  dangerous,  and,  somehow  or 
other,  his  guns  must  be  spiked.  A  brilliant  idea 
occurred  to  him.  Exactly  how  much  of  the  truth 
Seth  knew  he  was  not  sure,  but  he  took  the  risk. 

'  Very  well  then — Atkins,"  he  said  contemptu 
ously.  "  I  am  not  used  to  aliases — not  having 
dealt  with  persons  finding  it  necessary  to  employ 
them — and  I  forget.  But  before  this  disagree 
able  interview  is  ended  I  wish  you  to  understand 
thoroughly  why  I  am  here.  I  am  here  to  protect 
my  sister  and  to  remove  her  from  your  persecu 
tion.  I  am  here  to  assist  her  in  procuring  a  di 
vorce." 

"  A  divorce !  A  divorce!  Good  heavens 
above!  " 

'  Yes,  sir,"  triumphantly,  "  a  divorce  from  the 
man  she  was  trapped  into  marrying  and  who  de 
serted  her.  You  did  desert  her,  you  can't  deny 
that.  So  long  as  she  remains  your  wife,  even  in 
name,  she  is  liable  to  persecution  from  you.  She 
understands  this.  She  and  I  are  to  see  a  lawyer 
at  once.  That  is  why  I  am  here." 

273 


THE    WOMAN  HATERS 

Seth  was  completely  overwhelmed.  A  divorce ! 
A  case  for  the  papers  to  print,  and  all  of  Ostable 
county  to  read ! 

"  I — I — I — "  he  stammered,  and  then  added 
weakly,  "  I  don't  believe  it.  She  wouldn't  .  .  . 
There  ain't  no  lawyer  here." 

Then  we  shall  seek  the  one  nearest  here.  Em- 
eline  understands.  I  'phoned  her  this  morning." 

"  Was  it  you  that  'phoned?  " 

"  It  was.  Now — er — Atkins,  I  am  disposed 
to  be  as  considerate  of  your  welfare  as  possible. 
I  know  that  any  publicity  in  this  matter  might 
prejudice  you  in  the  eyes  of  your — of  the  gov 
ernment  officials.  I  shall  not  seek  publicity,  solely 
on  your  account.  The  divorce  will  be  obtained 
privately,  provided — provided  you  remain  out  of 
sight  and  do  not  interfere.  I  warn  you,  therefore, 
not  to  make  trouble  or  to  attempt  to  see  my  sis 
ter  again.  If  you  do — well,  if  you  do,  the  conse 
quences  will  be  unpleasant  for  you.  Do  you  un 
derstand?" 

Seth  understood,  or  thought  he  did.  He 
groaned  and  leaned  heavily  against  a  tree  trunk. 

"You  understand,  do  you?"  repeated  Bennie 
D.  "  I  see  that  you  do.  Very  good  then.  I 
have  nothing  more  to  say.  I  advise  that  you 

274 


"BENNIE    D." 

remain — er — in  seclusion  for  the  next  few  days. 
Good-by." 

He  gave  a  farewell  glance  at  the  crushed  fig 
ure  leaning  against  the  tree.  Then  he  turned  on 
his  heel  and  walked  off. 

Seth  remained  where  he  was  for  perhaps  ten 
minutes,  not  moving  a  muscle.  Then  he  seemed 
to  awaken,  looked  anxiously  in  the  direction  of 
the  depot  to  make  sure  that  no  one  was  watching, 
pulled  his  cap  over  his  eyes,  jammed  his  hands 
into  his  pockets,  and  started  to  walk  across  the 
fields.  He  had  no  fixed  destination  in  mind, 
had  no  idea  where  he  was  going  except  that  he 
must  go  somewhere,  that  he  could  not  keep  still. 

He  stumbled  along,  through  briers  and  bushes, 
paying  no  attention  to  obstacles  such  as  fences  or 
stone  walls  until  he  ran  into  them,  when  he 
climbed  over  and  went  blindly  on.  A  mile  from 
Eastboro,  and  he  was  alone  in  a  grove  of  scrub 
pines.  Here  he  stopped  short,  struck  his  hands 
together,  and  groaned  aloud: 

"  I  don't  believe  it !     I  don't  believe  it !  " 

For  he  was  beginning  not  to  believe  it.  At 
first  he  had  not  thought  of  doubting  Bennie  D.'s 
statement  concerning  the  divorce.  Now,  as  his 
thoughts  became  clearer,  his  doubts  grew.  His 

275 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

wife  had  not  mentioned  the  subject  in  their  morn 
ing  interview.  Possibly  she  would  not  have  done 
so  in  any  event,  but,  as  the  memory  of  her  be 
havior  and  speech  became  clearer  in  his  mind,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  she  could  not  have  kept  such 
a  secret.  She  had  been  kinder,  had  seemed  to 
him  more — yes,  almost — why,  when  he  asked 
her  to  be  his  again,  to  give  him  another  chance, 
she  had  hesitated.  She  had  not  said  no  at  once, 
she  hesitated.  If  she  was  about  to  divorce  him, 
would  she  have  acted  in  such  a  way?  It  hardly 
seemed  possible. 

Then  came  the  letter  and  the  telephone  mes 
sage.  It  was  after  these  that  she  had  said  no 
with  decision.  Perhaps  .  .  .  was  it  possible 
that  she  had  known  of  her  brother-in-law's  com 
ing  only  then?  Now  that  he  thought  of  it,  she 
had  not  gone  away  at  once  after  the  talk  over  the 
'phone.  She  had  waited  a  moment  as  if  for  him 
to  speak.  He,  staggered  and  paralyzed  by  the 
sight  of  his  enemy's  name  in  that  letter,  had  not 
spoken  and  then  she  .  .  .  He  did  not  believe 
she  was  seeking  a  divorce !  It  was  all  another  of 
Bennie  D.'s  lies! 

But  suppose  she  was  seeking  it.  Or  suppose — 
for  he  knew  the  persuasive  power  of  that  glib 

276 


"BENNIE    D." 

tongue  only  too  well — suppose  her  brother-in-law 
should  persuade  her  to  do  it.  Should  he  sit  still 
— in  seclusion,  as  his  late  adviser  had  counseled 
— and  let  this  irrevocable  and  final  move  be 
made?  After  a  divorce — Seth's  idea  of  divorces 
were  vague  and  Puritanical — there  would  be  no 
hope.  He  and  Emeline  could  never  come  to 
gether  after  that.  And  he  must  give  her  up  and 
all  his  hopes  of  happiness,  all  that  he  had  dreamed 
of  late,  would  be  but  dreams,  never  realities.  No ! 
he  could  not  give  them  up.  He  would  not.  Pub 
licity,  scandal,  everything,  he  could  face,  but  he 
would  not  give  his  wife  up  without  a  fight.  What 
should  he  do? 

For  a  long  time  he  paced  up  and  down  be 
neath  the  pines  trying  to  plan,  to  come  to  some 
decision.  All  that  he  could  think  of  was  to  re 
turn  to  the  Lights,  to  go  openly  to  the  bungalow, 
see  Emeline  and  make  one  last  appeal.  Bennie 
D.  might  be  there,  but  if  he  was — well,  by  jim- 
iny  crimps,  let  him  look  out,  that's  all ! 

He  had  reached  this  point  in  his  meditations 
when  the  wind,  which  had  been  steadily  increas 
ing  and  tossing  the  pinetops  warningly,  suddenly 
became  a  squall  which  brought  with  it  a  flurry 
of  rain.  He  started  and  looked  up.  The  sky 

19  277 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

was  dark,  it  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  the 
storm  he  had  prophesied  had  arrived. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  ran,  panting  and  wet, 
into  the  blacksmith's  shop.  The  automobile 
was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  Mr. 
Ellis  was  standing  beside  it,  perspiring  and 
troubled. 

"Where's  Joshua?"  demanded  Seth. 

"  Hey?  "  inquired  the  blacksmith  absently. 

'  Where's  my  horse?     Is  he  ready?  " 

Benijah  wiped  his  forehead. 

"Gosh!"    he    exclaimed.      "By  ...  gosh!" 

"  What  are  you  b'goshin'  about?  " 

"Seth — I  don't  know  what  you'll  say  to 
me — but — but  I  declare  I  forgot  all  about  your 
horse." 

'  You  forgot  about  him?  " 

"  Yes.  You  see  that  thing?  "  pointing  pathet 
ically  at  the  auto.  "  Well,  sir,  that  pesky  thing's 
breakin'  my  heart — to  say  nothin'  of  my  back. 
I  got  it  apart  all  right,  no  trouble  about  that. 
And  by  good  rights  I've  got  it  together  again, 
leastways  it  looks  so.  Yet,  by  time,"  in  dis 
tracted  agitation,  "  there's  a  half  bucket  of  bolts 
and  nuts  and  odds  and  ends  that  ain't  in  it  yet 
—left  over,  you  might  say.  And  I  can't  find  ary 
278 


"BENNIE    D." 

place  to  put  one  of  'em.     Do  you  wonder  I  for 
get  trifles?  " 

Trifles!  the  shoeing  of  Joshua  a  trifle!  The 
lightkeeper  had  been  suffering  for  an  opportu 
nity  to  blow  off  steam,  and  the  opportunity  was 
here.  Benijah  withered  under  the  blast. 

"S-sh-sh!  sh-sh!"  he  pleaded.  "Land  sakes, 
Seth  Atkins,  stop  it !  I  don't  blame  you  for 
bein'  mad,  but  you  nor  nobody  else  sha'n't  talk 
to  me  that  way.  I'll  fix  your  horse  in  five  min 
utes.  Yes,  sir,  in  five  minutes.  Shut  up  now,  or 
I  won't  do  it  at  all !  " 

He  rushed  over  to  the  stall  in  the  rear  of  the 
shop,  woke  Joshua  from  the  sweet  slumber  of 
old  age,  and  led  him  to  the  halter  beside  the 
forge.  The  lightkeeper,  being  out  of  breath,  had 
nothing  further  to  say  at  the  moment. 

'  What's  the  matter  with  all  you  lighthouse 
folks?"  asked  Benijah,  anxious  to  change  the 
subject.  '  What's  possessed  the  whole  lot  of 
you  to  come  to  the  village  at  one  time?  Whoa, 
boy,  stand  still!  " 

'The    whole   lot    of    us?"     repeated     Seth. 
*  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Mean  I've  seen  two  of  you  at  least  this 
afternoon.  That  Bascom  woman,  housekeeper 

279 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

at  the  Graham  bungalow  she  is,  went  past  here 
twice.  Fust  time  she  was  in  one  of  Snow's  liv 
ery  buggies,  Snow's  boy  drivin'  her.  Then,  about 
an  hour  ago,  she  went  by  again,  but  the  boy'd 
gone,  and  there  was  another  feller  pilotin'  the 
team — a  stranger,  nobody  I  ever  see  afore." 

Seth's  red  face  turned  pale.  "What?"  he 
cried.  "  Em — Mrs.  Bascom  ridin'  with  a  stran 
ger!  What  sort  of  a  stranger?" 

"  Oh,  a  feller  somewheres  between  twenty  and 
fifty.  Smooth-faced  critter  with  a  checked  suit 
and  a  straw  hat.  .  .  .  What  on  earth's  the  mat 
ter  with  you  now?  " 

For  the  lightkeeper  was  shaking  from  head 
to  foot. 

"  Did — did — which  way  was  they  goin'  ? 
Back  to  the  Lights  or — or  where?  " 

"  No,  didn't  seem  to  be  goin'  to  the  Lights  at 
all.  They  went  on  the  other  road.  Seemed  to 
be  headin'  for  Denboro  if  they  kept  on  as  they 
started.  .  .  .  Seth  Atkins,  have  you  turned 
loony?" 

Seth  did  not  answer.  With  a  leap  he  landed 
at  Joshua's  head,  unhooked  the  halter,  and  ran 
out  of  the  shop  leading  the  horse.  The  aston 
ished  blacksmith  followed  as  far  as  the  door. 

280 


"BENNIE    D." 

Seth  was  backing  the  animal  into  his  wagon, 
which  stood  beneath  the  shed.  He  fastened  the 
traces  with  trembling  fingers. 

'  What  in  the  world  has  struck  you?  "  shouted 
Ellis.  "  Ain't  you  goin'  to  have  that  shoe  fixed? 
He  can't  travel  that  way.  Seth  !  Seth  Atkins  I 
...  By  time,  he  is  crazy!  " 

Seth  did  not  deny  the  charge.  Climbing  into 
the  wagon,  he  took  up  the  reins. 

"  Are  you  sure  and  sartin'  'twas  the  Denboro 
road  they  took?  "  he  demanded. 

"Who  took?  That  feller  and  the  Bascom 
woman?  Course  I  am,  but  .  .  .  Well,  I  swan!" 

For  the  lightkeeper  waited  to  hear  no  more. 
He  struck  the  unsuspecting  Joshua  with  the  end 
of  the  reins  and,  with  a  jump,  the  old  horse 
started  forward.  Another  moment,  and  the  light 
house  wagon  was  splashing  and  rattling  through 
the  pouring  rain  along  the  road  leading  to  Den 
boro. 


CHAPTER    XV 

THE   VOYAGE   OF   THE   DAISY   M. 

DENBORO    is    many    long    miles     from 
Eastboro,  and  the  road,  even  in  the  best 
of  weather,  is  not  a  good  one.     It  winds 
and    twists    and    climbs    and    descends    through 
woods   and  over  hills.      There   are  stretches  of 
marshy  hollows  where  the  yellow  clay  needs  but 
a  little  moistening  to  become  a  paste  which  sticks 
to  wheels  and  hoofs  and  makes  traveling,  even 
behind  a  young  and  spirited  horse,  a  dishearten 
ing  progress. 

Joshua  was  neither  young  nor  spirited.  And 
the  weather  could  not  have  been  much  worse. 
The  three  days'  storm  had  soaked  everything, 
and  the  clay-bottomed  puddles  were  near  kin  to 
quicksands.  As  the  lighthouse  wagon  descended 
the  long  slope  at  the  southern  end  of  the  village 
and  began  the  circle  of  the  inner  extremity  of 
Eastboro  Back  Harbor,  Seth  realized  that  his 

282 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    THE    DAISY   M. 

journey  was  to  be  a  hard  one.  The  rain,  driven 
by  the  northeast  wind,  came  off  the  water  in 
blinding  gusts,  and  the  waves  in  the  harbor  were 
tipped  with  white.  Also,  although  the  tide  was 
almost  at  its  lowest,  streaks  of  seaweed  across  the 
road  showed  where  it  had  reached  that  forenoon, 
and  prophesied  even  a  greater  flood  that  night. 
He  turned  his  head  and  gazed  up  the  harbor  to 
where  it  narrowed  and  became  Pounddug  Slough. 
In  the  Slough,  near  its  ocean  extremity,  his  old 
schooner,  the  Daisy  M.,  lay  stranded.  He  had 
not  visited  her  for  a  week,  and  he  wondered  if 
the  "  spell  of  weather  "  had  injured  her  to  any 
extent.  This  speculation,  however,  was  but  mo 
mentary.  The  Daisy  M.  must  look  out  for  her 
self.  His  business  was  to  reach  Judge  Gould's, 
in  Denboro,  before  Mrs.  Bascom  and  Bennie  D. 
could  arrange  with  that  prominent  citizen  and 
legal  light  for  the  threatened  divorce. 

That  they  had  started  for  Judge  Gould's  he 
did  not  doubt  for  a  moment.  "  I  shall  seek  the 
nearest  lawyer,"  Bennie  D.  had  said.  And  the 
judge  was  the  nearest.  They  must  be  going 
there,  or  why  should  they  take  that  road? 
Neither  did  he  doubt  now  that  their  object  was 
to  secure  the  divorce.  How  divorces  were  se- 

283 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

cured,  or  how  long  it  took  to  get  one,  Seth  did 
not  know.  His  sole  knowledge  on  that  subject 
was  derived  from  the  newspapers  and  comic 
weeklies,  and  he  remembered  reading  of  places 
in  the  West  where  lawyers  with  the  necessary 
blanks  in  their  pockets  met  applicants  at  the  ar 
rival  of  one  train  and  sent  them  away,  rejoicing 
and  free,  on  the  next. 

"You  jump  right  off  the  cars  and  then 
Turn  round  and  jump  right  on  again." 

This  fragment  of  a  song,  sung  at  a  "  moving- 
picture  "  show  in  the  town  hall,  and  resung  many 
times  thereafter  by  Ezra  Payne,  John  Brown's 
predecessor  as  assistant  keeper  at  the  lights,  re 
curred  to  him  as  he  urged  the  weary  Joshua  on 
ward.  So  far  as  Seth  knew,  the  Reno  custom 
might  be  universal.  At  any  rate,  he  must  get 
to  Judge  Gould's  before  Emeline  and  her 
brother-in-law  left  there.  What  he  should  do 
when  he  arrived  and  found  them  there  was  im 
material;  he  must  get  there,  that  was  all. 

Eastboro  Back  Harbor  was  left  behind,  and 
the  long  stretch  of  woods  beyond  was  entered. 
Joshua,  his  hoofs  swollen  by  the  sticky  clay  to 
yellow  cannon  balls,  plodded  on,  but,  in  spite  of 

284 


THE    VOYAGE    OF   THE    DAISY   M. 

commands  and  pleadings — the  lightkeeper  pos 
sessed  no  whip  and  would  not  have  used  one  if 
he  had — he  went  slower  and  slower.  He  was 
walking  now,  and  limping  sadly  on  the  foot 
where  the  loose  shoe  hung  by  its  bent  and  broken 
nails. 

Five  miles,  six,  seven,  and  the  limp  was  worse 
than  ever.  Seth,  whose  conscience  smote  him, 
got  out  of  the  carriage  into  the  rain  and  mud 
and  attempted  repairs,  using  a  stone  as  a  ham 
mer.  This  seemed  to  help  matters  some,  but  it 
was  almost  dark  when  the  granite  block  mark 
ing  the  township  line  was  passed,  and  the  win 
dows  in  the  houses  were  alight  when  he  pulled 
up  at  the  judge's  door. 

The  judge  himself  answered  the  knock,  or 
series  of  knocks.  He  seemed  much  surprised  to 
find  the  keeper  of  Eastboro  Twin-Lights  stand 
ing  on  his  front  step. 

"  Why,  hello,  Atkins!  "  he  cried.  "  What  in 
the  world  are  you  doing  over  here?  a  night  like 
this!" 

"Has — has  Mrs.  Bascom  been  here?  Is  she 
here  now?"  panted  Seth  anxiously. 

"Mrs.  Bascom?     Who  is  Mrs.  Bascom?" 

"  She — she's  a  friend  of  mine.  She  and — and 
285 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

a  relation  of  hers  was  comin'  over  here  to  see 
you  on  business.  Ain't  they  here?  Ain't  they 
been  here?  " 

"  No.  No  one  has  been  here  this  afternoon. 
I've  been  in  since  one  o'clock,  and  not  a  soul  has 
called,  on  business  or  otherwise." 

The  lightkeeper  could  scarcely  believe  it. 
4  You're  sure?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Certainly.  If  they  came  before  one  my  wife 
would  have  told  me,  I  think.  I'll  ask  her." 

"  No,  no,"  hastily.  "  You  needn't.  If  they 
ain't  been  since  one  they  ain't  been.  But  I  don't 
understand.  .  .  .  There's  no  other  lawyer  nigh 
here,  is  there?  " 

"  No;  none  nearer  than  Bayport." 

"My  land!  My  land!  Then — then  I'm  out 
of  soundin's  somehow.  They  never  came  for  it, 
after  all." 

"  Came  for  what?" 

"  Nothin',  nothin',  I  guess,"  with  a  sickly 
smile.  "  I've  made  some  sort  of  mistake,  though 
I  don't  know  how.  Benije  must  have  .  .  .  I'll 
break  that  feller's  neck;  I  will!" 

The  lawyer  began  to  share  the  blacksmith's 
opinion  that  his  caller  had  gone  crazy. 

"  Come  in,  Atkins,"  he  urged.     "  Come  in  out 
286 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    THE   DAISY   M. 

of  the  wet.  What  is  the  matter?  What  are  you 
doing  here  at  this  time  of  night  so  far  from  the 
Lights?  Is  it  anything  serious?  Come  in  and 
tell  me  about  it." 

But  Seth,  instead  of  accepting  the  invitation, 
stared  at  him  aghast.  Then,  turning  about,  he 
leaped  down  the  steps,  ran  to  the  wagon  and 
climbed  in. 

"Giddap!"  he  shouted.  Poor,  tired  Joshua 
lifted  his  clay-daubed  hoofs. 

'You're  not  going  back?"  cried  Gould. 
"  Hold  on,  Atkins!  Wait!" 

But  Seth  did  not  wait.  Already  he  had  turned 
his  horse's  head  toward  Eastboro,  and  was  driv 
ing  off.  The  lawyer  stood  still,  amazedly  looking 
after  him.  Then  he  went  into  the  house  and 
spent  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour  trying  to  call 
the  Twin-Lights  by  telephone.  As  the  north 
east  wind  had  finished  what  the  northwest  one 
had  begun  and  the  wire  was  down,  his  attempt 
was  unsuccessful.  He  gave  it  up  after  a  time 
and  sat  down  to  discuss  the  astonishing  affair 
with  his  wife.  He  was  worried. 

But  his  worriment  was  as  nothing  compared 
to  Seth's.  The  lawyer's  reference  to  the  Lights 
had  driven  even  matrimonial  troubles  from  the 

287 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

Atkins  mind.  The  lights!  the  Twin-Lights!  It 
was  long  past  the  time  for  them  to  be  lit,  and 
there  was  no  one  to  light  them  but  Brown,  a 
green  hand.  Were  they  lit  at  all?  If  not,  heaven 
knew  what  might  happen  or  had  happened 
already. 

He  had  thought  of  this  before,  of  course,  had 
vaguely  realized  that  he  was  betraying  his  trust, 
but  then  he  had  not  cared.  The  Lights,  his  po 
sition  as  keeper,  everything,  were  side  issues  com 
pared  with  the  one  thing  to  be  done,  the  get 
ting  to  Denboro.  He  had  reached  Denboro  and 
found  his  journey  all  a  mistake;  his  wife  and 
Bennie  D.  had  not,  apparently,  visited  that  vil 
lage;  perhaps  had  not  even  started  for  it.  There 
fore,  in  a  measure  relieved,  he  thought  of  other 
things.  He  was  many  miles  from  his  post  of 
duty,  and  now  his  sole  idea  was  to  get  back 
to  it. 

At  ten  o'clock  Mrs.  Hepsibah  Deacon,  a 
widow  living  in  a  little  house  in  the  woods  on  the 
top  of  the  hill  on  the  Denboro  side  of  Eastboro 
Back  Harbor,  with  no  neighbors  for  a  mile  in 
either  direction,  was  awakened  by  shouts  under 
her  bedroom  window.  Opening  that  window  she 
thrust  forth  her  head. 

288 


THE    VOYAGE    OF   THE    DAISY   M. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  demanded  quaveringly. 
"  What's  the  matter?  Is  anything  afire?  " 

From  the  blackness  of  the  rain  and  fog  emerged 
a  vague  shape. 

"  It's  me,  Mrs.  Deacon;  Seth  Atkins,  down  to 
the  Lights,  you  know.  I've  left  my  horse  and 
carriage  in  your  barn.  Josh — he's  the  horse — is 
gone  lame  and  played  himself  out.  He  can't 
walk  another  step.  I've  unharnessed  him  and 
left  him  in  the  stall.  He'll  be  all  right.  I've 
given  him  some  water  and  hay.  Just  let  him  stay 
there,  if  it  ain't  too  much  trouble,  and  I'll  send 
for  him  to-morrer  and  pay  for  his  keep.  It's  all 
right,  ain't  it?  Much  obliged.  Good  night." 

Before  the  frightened  widow  could  ask  a  ques 
tion  or  utter  a  word  he  was  gone,  ploughing 
down  the  hill  in  the  direction  of  the  Back  Har 
bor.  When  he  reached  the  foot  of  that  hill 
where  the  road  should  have  been,  he  found  that 
it  had  disappeared.  The  tide  had  risen  and 
covered  it. 

It  was  pitch-dark,  the  rain  was  less  heavy,  and 
clouds  of  fog  were  drifting  in  before  the  wind. 
Seth  waded  on  for  a  short  distance,  but  soon 
realized  that  wading  would  be  an  impossibility. 
Then,  as  in  despair,  he  was  about  ready  to  give 

289 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

up  the  attempt,  a  dark  object  came  into  view 
beside  him.  It  was  a  dory  belonging  to  one  of 
the  lobstermen,  which,  at  the  end  of  its  long  an 
chor  rope,  had  swung  inshore  until  it  floated 
almost  over  the  road.  Seth  seized  it  in  time  to 
prevent  collision  with  his  knees.  The  thole  pins 
were  in  place,  and  the  oars  laid  lengthwise  on  its 
thwarts.  As  his  hands  touched  the  gunwale  a 
new  idea  came  to  him. 

He  had  intended  walking  the  rest  of  the  way 
to  Eastboro,  routing  out  the  liveryman  and  hiring 
a  horse  and  buggy  with  which  to  reach  the  Lights. 
Now  he  believed  chance  had  offered  him  an  easier 
and  more  direct  method  of  travel.  He  could 
row  up  the  Harbor  and  Slough,  land  close  to 
where  the  Daisy  M.  lay,  and  walk  the  rest  of  the 
way  in  a  very  short  time.  He  climbed  into  the 
dory,  pulled  up  the  anchor,  and  seated  himself 
at  the  oars. 

The  bottom  of  the  boat  was  two  inches  deep 
with  rain  water,  and  the  thwart  was  dripping  and 
cold.  Seth,  being  already  about  as  wet  as  he 
could  be,  did  not  mind  this,  but  pulled  with  long 
strokes  out  into  the  harbor.  The  vague  black 
shadows  of  the  land  disappeared,  and  in  a  minute 
he  was,  so  far  as  his  eyes  could  tell  him,  afloat 

290 


THE    VOYAGE    OF   THE   DAISY   M. 

on  a  shoreless  sea.  He  had  no  compass,  but  this 
did  not  trouble  him.  The  wind,  he  knew,  was 
blowing  directly  from  the  direction  he  wished  to 
go,  and  he  kept  the  dory's  bow  in  the  teeth  of  it. 
He  rowed  on  and  on.  The  waves,  out  here  in  the 
deep  water,  were  of  good  size,  and  the  spray  flew 
as  he  splashed  into  them.  He  knew  that  he  was 
likely  to  get  off  the  course,  but  the  Back  Harbor 
was,  except  for  its  upper  entrance,  landlocked, 
and  he  could  not  go  far  astray,  no  matter  where 
he  might  hit  the  shore. 

The  fog  clouds,  driven  by  the  squalls,  drifted 
by  and  passed.  At  rare  intervals  the  sky  was 
almost  clear.  After  he  had  rowed  for  half  an 
hour  and  was  beginning  to  think  he  must  be 
traveling  in  circles,  one  of  these  clear  intervals 
came  and,  far  off  to  the  left  and  ahead,  he  saw 
something  which  caused  him  to  utter  an  exclama 
tion  of  joy.  Two  fiery  eyes  shone  through  the 
dark.  The  fog  shut  them  in  again  almost  im 
mediately,  but  that  one  glance  was  sufficient  to 
show  that  all  was  well  at  the  post  he  had  de 
serted.  The  fiery  eyes  were  the  lanterns  in  the 
Twin-Lights  towers.  John  Brown  had  been  equal 
to  the  emergency,  and  the  lamps  were  lighted. 

Seth's  anxiety  was  relieved,  but  that  one 
291 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

glimpse  made  him  even  more  eager  for  home. 
He  rowed  on  for  a  short  time,  and  then  began 
edging  in  toward  the  invisible  left-hand  shore. 
[  Judging  by  the  length  of  time  he  had  been  rowing, 
he  must  be  close  to  the  mouth  of  the  Slough, 
where,  winding  through  the  salt  marshes,  it 
emerged  into  the  Back  Harbor. 

He  crept  in  nearer  and  nearer,  but  no  shore 
came  in  sight.  The  fog  was  now  so  thick  that 
he  could  see  not  more  than  ten  feet  from  the 
boat,  but  if  he  was  in  the  mouth  of  the  Slough 
he  should  have  grounded  on  the  marsh  bank  long 
before.  The  reason  that  he  did  not,  a  reason 
which  did  not  occur  to  him  at  the  time,  was  that 
the  marshes  were  four  feet  under  water.  Owing 
to  the  tremendous  tide  Pounddug  Slough  was 
now  merely  a  continuation  of  the  Harbor  and 
almost  as  wide. 

The  lightkeeper  began  to  think  that  he  must 
have  miscalculated  his  distance.  He  could  not 
have  rowed  as  far  as  he  thought.  Therefore,  he 
again  turned  the  dory's  nose  into  the  teeth  of  the 
wind  and  pulled  steadily  on.  At  intervals  he 
stopped  and  listened.  All  he  heard  was  the 
moan  of  distant  foghorns  and  the  whistling  of 
the  gusts  in  trees  somewhere  at  his  left.  There 

292 


THE    VOYAGE    OF   THE   DAISY   'M. 

were  pine  groves  scattered  all  along  the  bluffs  on 
the  Eastboro  side,  so  this  did  not  help  him  much 
except  to  prove  that  the  shore  was  not  far  away. 
He  pulled  harder  on  the  right  oar.  Then  he 
stopped  once  more  to  listen. 

Another  blast  howled  through  the  distant  trees 
and  swept  down  upon  him.  Then,  borne  on  the 
wind,  he  heard  from  somewhere  ahead,  and 
alarmingly  near  at  hand,  other  sounds,  voices, 
calls  for  help. 

"  Ahoyl  "  he  shouted.  "  Ahoy  there!  Who 
is  it?  Where  are  you?" 

"Help!"  came  the  calls  again — and  nearer. 
"Help!" 

"Look  out!"  roared  Seth,  peering  excitedly 
over  his  shoulder  into  the  dark.  "  Where  are 
you?  Look  out  or  you'll  be  afoul  of  .  .  . 
Jumpin'  Judas!  " 

For  out  of  the  fog  loomed  a  bulky  shape 
driving  down  upon  him.  He  pulled  frantically 
at  the  oars,  but  it  was  too  late.  A  mast  rocked 
against  the  sky,  a  stubby  bowsprit  shot  over  the 
dory,  and  the  little  boat,  struck  broadside  on, 
heeled  to  the  water's  edge.  Seth,  springing  fran 
tically  upward,  seized  the  bowsprit  and  clung  to 
it.  The  dory,  pushed  aside  and  half  full  of  wa- 
20  293 


THE  WOMAN-HATERS 

ter,  disappeared.  From  the  deck  behind  the  bow 
sprit  two  voices,  a  man's  voice  and  a  woman's, 
screamed  wildly. 

Seth  did  not  scream.  Clinging  to  the  reeling 
bowsprit,  he  swung  up  on  it,  edged  his  way  to  the 
vessel's  bows  and  stepped  upon  the  deck. 

"  For  thunder  sakes !  "  he  roared  angrily, 
"what  kind  of  navigation's  this?  Where's  your 
lights,  you  lubbers?  What  d'you  mean  by — 
Where  are  you  anyhow?  And — and  what  schoon 
er's  this?" 

For  the  deck,  as  much  as  he  could  see  of  it 
in  the  dark,  looked  astonishingly  familiar.  As  he 
stumbled  aft  it  became  more  familiar  still.  The 
ropes,  a  combination  of  new  and  old,  the  new 
boards  in  the  deck  planking,  the  general  arrange 
ment  of  things,  as  familiar  to  him  as  the  ar 
rangement  of  furniture  in  the  kitchen  of  the 
Lights !  It  could  not  be  ...  but  it  was !  The 
little  schooner  was  his  own,  his  hobby,  his  after 
noon  workshop — the  Daisy  M,  herself.  The 
Daisy  M.,  which  he  had  last  seen  stranded  and, 
as  he  supposed,  hard  and  fast  aground!  The 
Daisy  M.  afloat,  after  all  these  years ! 

From  the  stern  by  the  cabin  hatch  a  man 
came  reeling  toward  him,  holding  to  the  rail  for 

294 


THE    VOYAGE    OF   THE    DAISY   M. 

support    with    one    hand    and    brandishing    the 
other. 

"  Help!  "  cried  the  man  wildly.  "  Who  is  it? 
Help  us !  we're  drowning !  We're  .  .  .  Can't  you 
put  us  ashore.  Please  put  us  ...  Good  Lord!  " 

Seth  made  no  answer.  How  could  he?  The 
man  was  Bennie  D. 

And  then  another  figure  followed  the  first,  and 
a  woman's  voice  spoke  pleadingly. 

"Have  you  got  a  boat?"  it  cried.  "We're 
adrift  on  this  dreadful  thing  and  .  .  .  why, 
Sethi " 

The  woman  was  Emeline  Bascom. 

"Why,  Seth!"  she  said  again.  Then  the 
sounds  of  the  wind  and  waves  and  the  creaking 
and  cracking  of  the  old  schooner  alone  broke  the 
silence. 

But  Bennie  D.,  even  under  the  shock  of  such  a 
surprise  as  this,  did  not  remain  silent  long.  His 
precious  self  was  in  danger. 

"You  put  us  ashore!"  he  shouted.  "You 
put  us  ashore  right  off,  do  you  hear?  Don't  stand 
there  like  a  fool!  Do  something.  Do  you  want 
us  to  drown?  Do  something!  " 

Seth  came  to  life.  His  first  speech  was  sharp 
and  businesslike. 

295 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  Emeline,"  he  said,  "  there's  a  lantern  hang 
ing  up  in  the  cabin.  Go  light  it  and  fetch  it  to 
me.  Hurry!  " 

14  It's  upset,"  was  the  frightened  answer. 
"  Bennie  found  it  when  we  first  came  aboard. 
When  we — when  this  awful  boat  started,  it  upset 
and  went  out." 

14  Never  mind.  Probably  there's  ile  enough 
left  for  a  spell.  Go  fetch  it.  There's  matches 
in  a  box  on  the  wall  just  underneath  where  'twas 
hangin'.  Don't  stop  to  talk!  Move!  " 

Mrs.  Bascom  moved.  Seth  turned  to  the  "  in 
ventor." 

44  Come  for'ard  with  me,"  he  ordered. 
44  Here!  this  way!  for'ard!  for'ard!" 

He  seized  his  companion  by  the  arm  and  pulled 
him  toward  the  bow.  The  frightened  genius  held 
back. 

44  What  in  time  is  the  matter  with  you?" 
snarled  the  lightkeeper.  44  Are  your  feet  asleep? 
Come!" 

Bennie  D.  came,  under  compulsion.  Seth  half 
led,  half  dragged  him  to  the  bow,  and,  bending 
down,  uncoiled  a  rope  and  put  it  in  his  hands. 

44  Them's  the  jib  halliards,"  he  explained. 
44  Haul  on  'em  quick  and  hard  as  you  can.  If  we 

296 


THE    VOYAGE    OF   THE    DAISY    M. 

can  h'ist  the  jib  we  can  get  some  steerage  way  on 
her,  maybe.  Haul!  haul  till  you  can't  haul 
no  more.  Then  hang  on  till  I  come  back  and 
make  fast." 

He  rushed  back  to  the  wheel.  The  tiller  ropes 
were  new,  and  he  could  trust  them,  fortunately. 
From  the  cabin  hatchway  emerged  Mrs.  Bascom 
bearing  the  lighted  lantern. 

"Good!"  snapped  Seth.  "Now  we  can  see 
what  we're  doin'  and,  if  we  show  a  glim,  maybe 
we  won't  run  down  no  more  dories.  You  go 
for'ard  and —  No,  you  take  this  wheel  and  hold 
it  just  as  'tis.  Just  as  'tis;  understand?  I'll  be 
back  in  a  jiffy.  What  in  thunder's  the  matter 
with  that  foolhead  at  the  jib?" 

He  seized  the  lantern  and  rushed  to  the  bow. 
Bennie  D.  had  dropped  the  halliard  and  was 
leaning  over  the  rail  screaming  for  help. 

Seth  hoisted  the  jib  himself,  made  it  fast,  and 
then  turned  his  attention  to  the  mutinous  hand. 

"  Shut  up!  "  he  bellowed,  catching  him  by  the 
arm.  "  Who  do  you  cal'late's  goin'  to  hear  you? 
Shut  up !  You  come  with  me.  I  want  you  to 
pump.  The  old  craft  would  do  well  enough  if 
she  was  tight,  but  she's  more'n  likely  takin'  water 
like  a  sieve.  You  come  and  pump." 

297 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

But  Bennie  had  no  notion  of  pumping.  With 
a  jerk  he  tore  loose  from  the  lightkeeper's  grasp 
and  ran  to  the  stern,  where  he  continued  his  howls 
for  help. 

Seth  was  at  his  heels. 

"  Stop  that,  I  tell  you,"  he  commanded  angrily. 
''  It  don't  do  no  good.  If  you  don't  want  to  go 
to  the  bottom  you'll  work  that  pump.  Don't  be 
such  a  clown." 

The  frantic  genius  paid  no  attention.  His  sis 
ter-in-law  left  the  wheel  and  put  her  hand 
on  his  shoulder.  "  Please,  Bennie,"  she  pleaded. 
"  Please  do  as  he  says.  He  knows,  and— 

Bennie  D.  pushed  her  backward  with  savage 
force.  "  Mind  your  own  business,"  he  yelled 
with  an  oath.  'Twas  your  foolishness  got  me 
into  this."  Then,  leaning  over  the  rail,  he  called 
shrilly,  "He— Ip!  I'm  drowning!  Help!" 

Mrs.  Bascom  staggered  back  against  the  wheel, 
which  Seth  had  seized  the  instant  she  deserted  it. 
uOh!  "  she  said,  "you  hurt  me." 

Her  husband  freed  an  arm  and  put  it  about 
her.  u  Are  you  much  hurt,  Emeline?  "  he  asked 
sharply. 

"  No — o.  No,  Seth.  I — I  guess  I  ain't  really 
hurt  at  all." 

298 


THE    VOYAGE    OF   THE    DAISY   M. 

"Good!  Then  you  take  this  wheel  and  hold 
her  just  so.  That's  it.  And  don't  you  drop  it 
again.  I'll  attend  to  this  feller." 

His  wiry  fingers  locked  themselves  in  Bennie 
D.'s  shirt  collar. 

"  I  ordered  you  to  pump,"  said  Seth.  "  Now 
then,  you  come  and  pump !  " 

"  Let  go !  "  screamed  his  captive.  "  Take  your 
hands  off  me,  or " 

The  back  of  his  head  striking  the  deck  put  a 
period  in  the  middle  of  his  sentence.  The  next 
moment  he  was  being  dragged  by  the  collar  to 
the  little  hand  pump  amidships. 

"  Pump !  "  roared  the  lightkeeper.  "  Pump ! 
or  I'll  break  your  everlastin'  neck.  Lively 
now!" 

The  dazed  genius  rose  to  his  knees. 
"  What—"  he  stammered.  "  Where " 

"  Right  there  in  front  of  you.  Lively,  you 
lubber!" 

A  well-directed  kick  helped  to  facilitate  liveli 
ness. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  wailed  Bennie  D.,  fum 
bling  the  pump  brake.  "  How  does  it  go?" 

"  Up  and  down — so."  Seth  jerked  his  vic 
tim's  head  up  and  down,  by  way  of  illustration. 

299 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"  Now,  then,"  he  continued,  "  you  pump  till  I 
say  quit,  or  I'll — I  swan  to  man  I'll  make  a  spare 
tops'l  out  of  your  hide!  " 

He  left  the  inventor  working  as  he  had  not 
worked  in  the  memory  of  man,  and  strode  back 
to  the  wheel.  Mrs.  Bascom  was  clinging  to  the 
spokes  for  dear  life. 

"  I — I  ain't  dropped  it,  Seth,"  she  declared. 
"  Truly  I  ain't." 

"  All  right.  You  can  drop  it  now.  I'll  take  it 
myself.  You  set  down  and  rest." 

He  took  the  wheel  and  she  collapsed,  breath 
less,  against  the  rail.  After  a  time  she  ventured 
to  ask  a  question. 

"  Seth!  "  she  said,  "  how  do  you  know  which 
way  to  steer?  " 

"  I  don't,"  was  the  reply.  "  All  I'm  tryin'  to 
do  is  keep  her  afore  it.  If  this  no'theast  wind 
would  hold,  we'd  be  all  right,  but  it's  dyin'  fast. 
And  the  tide  must  be  at  flood,  if  not  startin'  to 
go  out.  With  no  wind,  and  no  anchor,  and  the 
kind  of  ebb  tide  there'll  be  pretty  soon — well,  if 
we  don't  drift  out  to  sea  we'll  be  lucky.  .  .  . 
Pump!  pump!  you  son  of  a  roustabout.  If  I 
hear  you  stoppin'  for  a  second  I'll  come  for'ard 
and  murder  you." 

300 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    THE    DAISY    M. 

Bennie  D.,  who  had  ventured  to  rest  for  a 
moment,  bent  his  aching  back  to  the  task. 
Was  this  man-slaughtering  tyrant  his  mild-man 
nered,  meek  brother-in-law,  the  creature  whom 
he  had  brow-beaten  so  often  and  managed  so 
effectively?  He  could  not  understand — but  he 
pumped. 

Perhaps  Seth  did  not  understand,  either;  per 
haps  he  did  not  try  to.  Yet  the  explanation  was 
simple  and  natural.  The  sea,  the  emergency,  the 
danger,  his  own  deck  beneath  his  feet — these 
were  like  old  times,  here  was  a  situation  he  knew 
how  to  handle.  He  forgot  that  he  was  a  light- 
keeper  absent  from  duty,  forgot  that  one  of  his 
passengers  was  the  wife  he  had  run  away  from, 
and  the  other  his  bugbear,  the  dreaded  and  for 
midable  Bennie  D.  He  forgot  all  this  and  was 
again  the  able  seaman,  the  Tartar  skipper  who, 
in  former  days,  made  his  crews  fear,  respect,  and 
swear  by  him. 

And  he  reveled  in  his  authority.  Once  Mrs. 
Bascom  rose  to  peer  over  the  rail. 

"  Emeline,"  he  snapped,  "  didn't  I  tell  you  to 
set  down  and  set  still?  Must  I  give  orders  twice? 
Set  down!  " 

Emeline  "  set." 

301 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

The  wind  died  to  fitful  gusts.  The  schooner 
barely  moved.  The  fog  was  as  thick  as  ever. 
Still  Seth  did  not  lose  courage.  When  the  house 
keeper  ventured  to  murmur  that  she  was  certain 
they  would  drown,  he  reassured  her. 

"  Keep  your  pennant  mast-high,  Emeline,"  he 
said  cheerfully.  "  We  ain't  out  at  sea,  that's 
sure  and  sartin.  And,  until  we  get  in  the  break 
ers,  we're  safe  enough.  The  old  gal  leaks  some ; 
she  ain't  as  dry  as  a  Good-Templar  prayer  meet- 
in',  but  she's  afloat.  And  when  I'm  afloat  I  ain't 
afraid,  and  you  needn't  be." 

Some  time  after  that  he  asked  a  question  in 
his  turn. 

"  Emeline,"  he  said,  "  what  in  the  world  are 
you  doin'  here,  on  my  schooner?" 

"Your  schooner,  Seth?  Yours?  Is  this 
dreadful — is  this  boat  yours?  " 

'  Yup.  She's  mine.  I  bought  her  just  for  fun 
a  long  spell  ago,  and  I've  been  fussin'  with  her 
ever  since.  But  I  did  it  for  fun;  I  never  s'posed 
she'd  take  a  cruise — like  this.  And  what  are  you 
and — him — doin'  on  her?  " 

Mrs.  Bascom  hesitated.  ll  It  was  all  an  acci 
dent,  Seth,"  she  explained.  '  This  has  been  an 
awful  night — and  day.  Bennie  and  I  was  out 

302 


THE    VOYAGE    OF   THE    DAISY   M. 

ridin'  together,  and  we  took  the  wrong  road. 
We  got  lost,  and  the  rain  was  awful.  We  got 
out  of  the  buggy  to  stand  under  some  trees  where 
'twas  drier.  The  horse  got  scared  at  some  limbs 
fallin'  and  run  off.  Then  it  was  most  dark,  and 
we  got  down  to  the  shore  and  saw  this  boat. 
There  wa'n't  any  water  round  her  then.  Bennie, 
he  climbed  aboard  and  said  the  cabin  was  dry, 
so  we  went  into  it  to  wait  for  the  storm  to  let  up. 
But  it  kept  gettin'  worse.  When  we  came  out  of 
the  cabin  it  was  all  fog  like  this  and  water  every 
where.  Bennie  was  afraid  to  wade,  for  we 
couldn't  see  the  shore,  so  we  went  back  into  the 
cabin  again.  And  then,  all  at  once,  there  was  a 
bump  that  knocked  us  both  sprawlin'.  The  lan 
tern  went  out,  and  when  we  come  on  deck  we  were 
afloat.  It  was  terrible.  And  then — and  then  you 
came,  Seth,  and  saved  our  lives." 

"  Humph !  Maybe  they  ain't  saved  yet.  .  .  . 
Emeline,  where  was  you  drivin'  to?  " 

'  Why,  we  was  drivin'  home,  or  thought  we 
was." 

"Home?" 

'  Yes,  home — back  to  the  bungalow." 

"You  was?" 

"  Yes." 

303 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

A  pause.  Then:  "  Emeline,  there's  no  use 
your  tellin'  me  what  ain't  so.  I  know  more  than 
you  think  I  do,  maybe.  If  you  was  drivin'  home 
why  did  you  take  the  Denboro  road?" 

"  The  Denboro  road?  Why,  we  only  went  on 
that  a  ways.  Then  we  turned  off  on  what  we 
thought  was  the  road  to  the  Lights.  But  it 
wa'n't;  it  must  have  been  the  other,  the  one  that 
goes  along  by  the  edge  of  the  Back  Harbor  and 
the  Slough,  the  one  that's  hardly  ever  used. 
Seth,"  indignantly,  "  what  do  you  mean  by  sayin' 
that  I  told  you  what  wa'n't  so?  Do  you  think  I 
lie?" 

"  No.  No  more  than  you  thought  I  lied  about 
that  Christy  critter." 

"  Seth,  I  was  always  sorry  for  that.  I  knew 
you  didn't  lie.  At  least  I  ought  to  have  known 
you  didn't.  I— 

"  Wait.  What  did  you  take  the  Denboro  road 
at  all  for?" 

"  Why— why—  Well,  Seth,  I'll  tell  you.  Ben- 
nie  wanted  to  talk  to  me.  He  had  come  on  pur 
pose  to  see  me,  and  he  wanted  me  to  do  somethin' 
that — that  .  .  .  Anyhow,  he'd  come  to  see  me. 
I  didn't  know  he  was  comin'.  I  hadn't  heard 
from  him  for  two  years.  That  letter  I  got  this — 

3°4 


THE    VOYAGE    OF    THE    DAISY   M. 

yesterday  mornin'  was    from   him,    and   it   most 
knocked  me  over." 

'You  hadn't  heard  from  him?     Ain't  he  been 
writin'  you  right  along?  " 

"  No.  The  fact  is  he  left  me  two  years  ago 
without  even  sayin'  good-by,  and — and  I  thought 
he  had  gone  for  good.  But  he  hadn't,"  with  a 
sigh,  "  he  hadn't.  And  he  wanted  to  talk  with 
me.  That's  why  he  took  the  other  road — so's 
he'd  have  more  time  to  talk,  I  s'pose." 

"Humph!  Emeline,  answer  me  true:  Wa'n't 
you  goin'  to  Denboro  to  get — to  get  a  divorce 
from  me?  " 

"  A  divorce?  A  divorce  from  you?  Seth  Bas- 
com,  I  never  heard  such " 

She  rose  from  her  seat  against  the  rail. 

"  Set    down,"    ordered   her   husband .  sharply. 
'  You  set  down  and  keep  down." 

She  stared,  gasped,  and  resumed  her  seat.  Seth 
gazed  straight  ahead  into  the  blackness.  He 
swallowed  once  or  twice,  and  his  hands  tightened 
on  the  spokes  of  the  wheel. 

"  That — that  feller  there,"  nodding  grimly 
toward  the  groaning  figure  at  the  pumps,  "  told 
me  himself  that  him  and  you  had  agreed  to  get 
a  divorce  from  me — to  get  it  right  off.  He  give 

305 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

me  to  understand  that  you  expected  him,  'twas  all 
settled  and  that  was  why  he'd  come  to  Eastboro. 
That's  what  he  told  me  this  afternoon  on  the  de 
pot  platform." 

Mrs.  Bascom  again  sprang  up. 

"  Set  down!  "  commanded  Seth. 

"  I  won't." 
'  Yes,  you  will.     Set  down."     And  she  did. 

"  Seth,"   she  cried,   "  did  he— did  Bennie  tell 

you  that?     Did  he?     Why,  I  never  heard  such  a 

—I  never!     Seth,  it  ain't  true,  not  a  word  of  it. 

Did  you  think  I'd  get  a  divorce?     Me?     A  self- 

respectin'  woman?    And  from  you?  " 

'  You  turned  me  adrift." 

"  I  didn't.  You  turned  yourself  adrift.  I  was 
in  trouble,  bound  by  a  promise  I  give  my  dyin' 
husband,  to  give  his  brother  a  home  while  I  had 
one.  I  didn't  want  to  do  it;  I  didn't  want  him 
with  us — there,  where  we'd  been  so  happy.  But 
/  couldn't  say  anything.  /  couldn't  turn  him  out. 
And  you  wouldn't,  you " 

She  was  interrupted.  From  beneath  the  Daisy 
M's  keel  came  a  long,  scraping  noise.  The  little 
schooner  shook,  and  then  lay  still.  The  waves, 
no  longer  large,  slapped  her  sides. 

Mrs.  Bascom,  startled,  uttered  a  little  scream. 
306 


THE    VOYAGE    OF   THE   DAISY   M. 

Bennie  D.,  knocked  to  his  knees,  roared  in  fright. 
Seth  alone  was  calm.  Nothing,  at  that  moment, 
could  alarm  or  even  surprise  him. 

"Humph!"  he  observed,  "we're  aground 
somewheres.  And  in  the  Harbor.  We're  safe 
and  sound  now,  I  cal'late.  Emeline,  go  below 
where  it's  dry  and  stay  there.  Don't  talk — go. 
As  for  you,"  leaving  the  wheel  and  striding 
toward  the  weary  inventor,  "  you  can  stop  pump- 
in' — unless,"  with  a  grim  smile,  "  you  like  it  too 
well  to  quit — and  set  down  right  where  you 
be.  Right  where  you  be,  I  said!  Don't  you 
move  till  I  say  the  word.  When  I  say  it, 
jump!  " 

He  went  forward,  lowered  the  jib,  and  coiled 
the  halliards.  Then,  lantern  in  hand,  he  seated 
himself  in  the  bows.  After  a  time  he  filled  his 
pipe,  lit  it  by  the  aid  of  the  lantern,  and  smoked. 
There  was  silence  aboard  the  Daisy  M. 

The  wind  died  away  altogether.  The  fog 
gradually  disappeared.  From  somewhere  not  far 
away  a  church  clock  struck  the  hour.  Seth  heard 
it  and  smiled.  Turning  his  head  he  saw  in  the 
distance  the  Twin-Lights  burning  steadily.  He 
smiled  again. 

Gradually,  slowly,  the  morning  came.  The 
307 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

last  remnant  of  low-hanging  mist  drifted  away. 
Before  the  bows  of  the  stranded  schooner  ap 
peared  a  flat  shore  with  a  road,  still  partially 
covered  by  the  receding  tide,  along  its  border. 
Fish  houses  and  anchored  dories  became  visible. 
Behind  them  were  hills,  and  over  them  roofs  and 
trees  and  steeples. 

A  step  sounded  behind  the  watcher  in  the 
bows.  Mrs.  Bascom  was  at  his  elbow. 

"Why,  Seth!"  she  cried,  "why,  Seth!  it's 
Eastboro,  ain't  it?  We're  close  to  Eastboro." 

Seth  nodded.  "  It's  Eastboro,"  he  said.  "  I 
cal'lated  we  must  be  there  or  thereabouts.  With 
that  no'theast  breeze  to  help  us  we  couldn't  do 
much  else  but  fetch  up  at  the  inner  end  of  the 
Back  Harbor." 

She  laid  her  hand  timidly  on  his  arm. 

"  Seth,"  she  whispered,  "  what  should  we  have 
done  without  you?  You  saved  our  lives." 

He  swung  about  and  faced  her.  "  Emeline," 
he  said,  "  we've  both  been  awful  fools.  I've  been 
the  biggest  one,  I  guess.  But  I've  learned  my 
lesson — I've  swore  off — I  told  you  I'd  prove  I 
was  a  man.  Do  you  think  I've  been  one  to 
night?" 

"Seth!" 

308 


THE    VOYAGE    OF   THE    DAISY   M. 

"Well,  do  you?  Or,"  with  a  gesture  toward 
the  "  genius  "  who  was  beginning  to  take  an  in 
terest  in  his  surroundings,  "  do  you  like  that  kind 
better?" 

"  Seth,"  reproachfully,  u  I  never  liked  him 
better.  If  you  had— 

She  was  interrupted  by  her  brother-in-law,  who 
came  swaggering  toward  them.  With  the  sight 
of  land  and  safety,  Bennie  D.'s  courage  returned; 
also,  his  old  assurance. 

"Humph!"  he  observed.  "Well,  sister,  we 
are  safe,  I  really  believe.  In  spite  of,"  with  a 
glare  at  the  lightkeeper,  "  this  person's  insane 
recklessness  and  brutality.  Now  I  will  take  you 
ashore  and  out  of  his  presence." 

Seth  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you,"  he  demanded,  "  not  to 
move  till  I  said  the  word?  Emeline,  stay  right 
here." 

Bennie  D.  stared  at  the  speaker;  then  at  his 
sister-in-law. 

"  Sister,"  he  cried,  in  growing  alarm,  "  sister, 
come!  come!  we're  going  ashore,  I  tell  you. 
What  are  you  waiting  for?" 

Seth  put  his  arm  about  the  lady. 

"  She  is  goin'  ashore,"  he  said.  ;t  But  she's 
21  309 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

goin'  with  me,  and  she's  goin'  to  stay  with  me. 
Ain't  you,  Emeline?" 

The  lady  looked  up  into  his  face  and  then 
down  again.  'If  you  want  me,  Seth,"  she  said. 

Bennie  D.  sprang  forward.  "  Emeline,"  he 
shrieked,  "what  do  you  mean?  Are  you  going 
to  leave  me?  Have  you  forgotten " 

"  She  ain't  forgot  nothin',"  broke  in  Seth. 
"  But  yon  re  forgettin'  what  I  told  you.  Will 
you  go  aft  there  and  set  down,  or  shall  I  make 
you?" 

"  But — but,  Emeline — sister — have  you  forgot 
ten  your  promise  to  your  dying  husband?  To  my 
brother?  You  promised  to  give  me  a  home  as 
long  as  you  owned  one." 

Then  Seth  played  his  trump. 

"  She  don't  own  any  home,"  he  declared  tri 
umphantly.  "  She  sold  her  house,  and  she  ain't 
got  any  home — except  the  one  I'm  goin'  to  give 
her.  And  if  you  ever  dare  to  show  your  head 
inside  of  that,  I'll — I'll  heave  you  over  both 
lights.  If  you  think  I'm  foolin',  just  try  and  see. 
Now  then,  Emeline." 

And,  with  his  wife  in  his  arms,  Seth  Atkins — 
Seth  Atkins  Bascom — Captain  Seth  Atkins  Bas- 
com — swung  over  the  rail  and  waded  to  land. 

310 


CHAPTER    XVI 

THE  EBB  TIDE 

JOHN  BROWN,"  his  long  night's  vigil  over, 
extinguished  the  lights  in  the  two  towers, 
descended  the  iron  stairs,  and  walked  across 
the  yard  into  the  kitchen.  His  first  move,  after 
entering  the  house,  was  to  ring  the  telephone  bell 
and  endeavor  to  call  Eastboro.  He  was  anxious 
concerning  Atkins.  Seth  had  not  returned,  and 
the  substitute  assistant  was  certain  that  some  ac 
cident  must  have  befallen  him.  The  storm  had 
been  severe,  but  it  would  take  more  than  weather 
to  keep  the  lightkeeper  from  his  post;  if  he  was 
all  right  he  would  have  managed  to  return  some 
how. 

Brown  rang  the  bell  time  and  time  again,  but 
got  no  response.  The  storm  had  wrecked  the 
wires,  that  was  certain,  and  that  means  of  com 
munication  was  cut  off.  He  kindled  the  fire  in  the 
range  and  tried  to  forget  his  anxiety  by  prepar- 

3" 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

ing  breakfast.  When  it  was  prepared  he  waited 
a  while  and  then  sat  down  to  a  lonely  meal.  But 
he  had  no  appetite,  and,  after  dallying  with  the 
food  on  his  plate,  gave  it  up  and  went  outside  to 
look  about  him. 

The  first  thing  he  looked  at  was  the  road  from 
the  village.  No  sign  of  life  in  that  direction  as 
far  as  he  could  see.  Then  he  looked  at  the 
bungalow.  Early  as  it  was,  a  thread  of  blue 
smoke  was  ascending  from  the  chimney.  Did 
that  mean  that  the  housekeeper  had  returned? 
Or  had  Ruth  Graham  been  alone  all  through  the 
miserable  night?  Under  ordinary  circumstances 
he  would  have  gone  over  and  asked  if  all  was 
well.  He  would  have  done  that,  even  if  Seth 
were  at  home — he  was  past  the  point  where  the 
lightkeeper  or  their  compact  could  have  pre 
vented  him — but  he  could  not  muster  courage  to 
go  now.  She  must  have  found  the  note  he  had 
tucked  under  the  door,  and  he  was  afraid  to  hear 
her  answer.  If  it  should  be  no,  then — well,  then 
he  did  not  care  what  became  of  him. 

He  watched  the  bungalow  for  a  time,  hoping 
that  she  might  come  out — that  he  might  at  least 
see  her — but  the  door  did  not  open.  Auguring 
all  sorts  of  dismal  things  from  this,  he  moped 

312 


THE    EBB    TIDE 

gloomily  back  to  the  kitchen.  He  was  tired  and 
had  not  slept  for  thirty  hours,  but  he  felt  no  de 
sire  for  bed.  He  could  not  go  to  bed  anyway 
until  Atkins  returned — and  he  did  not  want  to. 

He  sat  down  in  a  chair  and  idly  picked  up  one 
of  a  pile  of  newspapers  lying  in  the  corner.  They 
were  the  New  York  and  Boston  papers  which 
the  grocery  boy  had  brought  over  from  East- 
boro,  with  the  mail,  the  previous  day.  Seth  had 
not  even  looked  at  them,  and  Brown,  who  seldom 
or  never  read  newspapers,  found  that  he  could 
not  do  so  now.  He  tossed  them  on  the  table  and 
once  more  went  out  of  doors.  After  another 
glance  at  the  bungalow,  he  walked  to  the  edge  of 
the  bluff  and  looked  over. 

He  was  astonished  to  see  how  far  the  tide  had 
risen  in  the  night.  The  line  of  seaweed  and  drift 
marking  its  highest  point  was  well  up  the  bank. 
Now  the  ebb  was  foaming  past  the  end  of  the 
wharf.  He  looked  for  the  lobster  car,  which 
should  have  been  floating  at  its  moorings,  but 
could  not  see  it.  Either  it  was  under  the  wharf 
or  it  had  been  swept  away  and  was  gone.  And 
one  of  the  dories  was  gone,  too.  No,  there  it 
was,  across  the  cove,  high  and  dry  on  the  beach. 
If  so  much  damage  was  visible  from  where  he 

313 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

stood,  it  was  probable  that  a  closer  examination 
might  show  even  more.  He  reentered  the  kitchen, 
took  the  boathouse  key  from  its  nail — the  key  to 
Seth's  wonderful  purchase,  the  spring  lock  which 
was  to  keep  out  thieves  and  had  so  far  been  of 
no  use  except  as  a  trouble-maker — and  started 
for  the  wharf.  As  he  passed  the  table  he  picked 
up  the  bundle  of  newspapers  and  took  them  with 
him.  The  boathouse  was  the  repository  for  rub 
bish,  old  papers  and  magazines  included,  and 
these  might  as  well  be  added  to  the  heap.  At 
kins  had  not  read  this  particular  lot,  but  the  sub 
stitute  assistant  did  not  think  of  this. 

The  lobster  car  was  not  under  the  wharf.  The 
ropes  which  had  moored  it  were  broken,  and  the 
car  was  gone.  Splinters  and  dents  in  the  piles 
showed  where  it  had  banged  and  thumped  in  the 
grasp  of  the  tide  before  breaking  loose.  And, 
lying  flat  on  the  wharf  and  peering  under  it,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  piles  themselves  were  a 
trifle  aslant;  that  the  whole  wharf  had  settled 
down  on  the  outer  side. 

He  rose  and  was  about  to  go  further  out  for 
another  examination,  when  his  foot  struck  the  pile 
of  papers  he  had  brought  with  him.  He  picked 
them  up,  and,  unlocking  the  boathouse  door — it 

3H 


THE    EBB    TIDE 

stuck  and  required  considerable  effort  to  open  it 
— entered  the  building,  tossed  the  papers  on  the 
floor,  and  turned  to  go  out.  Before  he  could  do 
so  the  door  swung  shut  with  a  bang  and  a  click. 

At  first  he  did  not  realize  what  the  click  meant. 
Not  until  he  tried  to  open  it  did  he  understand. 
The  settling  of  the  wharf  had  thrown  the  door 
and  its  frame  out  of  the  perpendicular.  That 
was  why  it  stuck  and  opened  with  such  reluctance. 
When  he  opened  it,  he  had,  so  to  speak,  pushed 
it  uphill.  Its  own  weight  had  swung  it  back,  and 
the  spring  lock — in  which  he  had  left  the  key — 
had  worked  exactly  as  the  circular  of  directions 
declared  it  would  do.  He  was  a  prisoner  in  that 
boathouse. 

Even  then  he  did  not  fully  grasp  the  situation. 
He  uttered  an  exclamation  of  impatience  and 
tugged  at  the  door;  but  it  was  heavy,  jammed 
tight  in  its  frame,  and  the  lock  was  new  and 
strong.  He  might  as  well  have  tried  to  pull  up 
the  wharf. 

After  a  minute  of  fruitless  effort  he  gave  up 
the  attempt  on  the  door  and  moved  about  the 
little  building,  seeking  other  avenues  of  escape. 
The  only  window  was  a  narrow  affair,  high  up 
at  the  back,  hung  on  hinges  and  fastened  with  a 

315 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

hook  and  staple.  He  climbed  up  on  the  fish  nets 
and  empty  boxes,  got  the  window  open,  and 
thrust  his  head  and  one  shoulder  through  the 
opening.  That,  however,  was  as  far  as  he  could 
go.  A  dwarf  might  have  squeezed  through  that 
window,  but  not  an  ex-varsity  athlete  like  Russell 
Brooks  or  a  husky  longshoreman  like  "  John 
Brown."  It  was  at  the  back,  facing  the  mouth 
of  the  creek  and  the  sea,  and  afforded  a  beautiful 
marine  view,  but  that  was  all.  He  dropped  back 
on  the  fish  nets  and  audibly  expressed  his  opinion 
of  the  lock  and  the  man  who  had  bought  it. 

Then  he  tried  the  door  again,  again  gave  it  up, 
and  sat  down  on  the  fish  nets  to  think.  Thinking 
was  unsatisfactory  and  provoking.  He  gave  that 
up,  also,  and,  seeing  a  knothole  in  one  of  the 
boards  in  the  landward  side  of  his  jail,  knelt  and 
applied  his  eye  to  the  aperture.  His  only  hope 
of  freedom,  apparently,  lay  in  the  arrival  home 
of  the  lightkeeper.  If  Seth  had  arrived  he  could 
shout  through  that  knothole  and  possibly  be 
heard. 

The  knothole,  however,  commanded  a  view, 
not  of  the  lighthouse  buildings,  but  of  the  cove 
and  the  bungalow.  The  bungalow!  Ruth  Gra 
ham!  Suddenly,  and  with  a  shock,  flashed  to  his 

316 


THE    EBB    TIDE 

mind  the  thought  that  his  imprisonment,  if  at  all 
prolonged,  was  likely  to  be,  not  a  joke,  but  the 
most  serious  catastrophe  of  his  life. 

For  Ruth  Graham  was  going  to  leave  the 
bungalow  and  Eastboro  that  very  day.  He  had 
begged  to  see  her  once  more,  and  this  day  was 
his  last  chance.  He  had  written  her,  pleading 
to  see  her  and  receive  his  answer.  If  he  did  not 
see  her,  if  Seth  did  not  return  before  long  and 
he  remained  where  he  was,  a  prisoner  and  in 
visible,  the  last  chance  was  gone.  Ruth  would 
believe  he  had  repented  of  his  declaration  as  em 
bodied  in  the  fateful  note,  and  had  fled  from  her. 
She  had  intimated  that  he  was  a  coward  in  not 
seeing  his  fiancee  and  telling  her  the  truth.  She 
did  not  like  his  writing  that  other  girl  and  run 
ning  away.  Now  she  would  believe  the  cow 
ardice  was  inherent,  because  he  had  written  her, 
also — and  had  run  away.  Horrible  1 

Through  the  knothole  he  sent  a  yell  for  rescue. 
Another  and  another.  They  were  unheard — at 
least,  no  one  emerged  from  the  bungalow.  He 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  made  another  circle  of  the 
interior  of  the  boathouse.  Then  he  sank  down 
upon  the  heap  of  nets  and  again  tried  to  think. 
He  must  get  out.  He  must — somehow! 

317 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

The  morning  sunshine  streamed  through  the 
little  window  and  fell  directly  upon  the  pile  of 
newspapers  he  had  brought  from  the  kitchen  and 
thrown  on  the  floor.  His  glance  chanced  to  rest 
for  an  instant  upon  the  topmost  paper  of  the  pile. 
It  was  a  New  York  journal  which  devotes  two  of 
its  inside  pages  to  happenings  in  society.  When 
he  threw  it  down  it  had  unfolded  so  that  one  of 
these  pages  lay  uppermost.  Absently,  scarcely 
realizing  that  he  was  doing  so,  the  substitute  as 
sistant  read  as  follows: 

"Engagement  in  High  Life  Announced.  Another 
American  Girl  to  Wed  a  Nobleman.  Miss  Ann  Gard 
ner  Davidson  to  become  the  Baroness  Hardacre. " 

With  a  shout  he  fell  upon  his  knees,  seized  the 
paper  and  read  on: 

"Another  contemplated  matrimonial  alliance  be 
tween  one  of  New  York's  fairest  daughters  and  a  scion 
of  the  English  nobility  was  made  public  yesterday. 
Miss  Ann  Gardner  Davidson,  of  this  city,  the  breaking 
of  whose  engagement  to  Russell  Agnew  Brooks,  son  of 
George  Agnew  Brooks,  the  wealthy  cotton  broker,  was 
the  sensation  of  the  early  spring,  is  to  marry  Herbert 
Ainsworth-Ainsworth,  Baron  Hardacre,  of  Hardacre 
Towers,  Surrey  on  Kent,  England.  It  was  said  that 
the  young  lady  broke  off  her  former  engagement  with 

young  Brooks  because  of 

318 


THE    EBB    TIDE 

The  prisoner  in  the  boathouse  read  no  further. 
Ruth  Graham  had  said  to  him  the  day  before 
that,  in  her  opinion,  he  had  treated  Ann  David 
son  unfairly.  He  should  have  gone  to  her  and 
told  her  of  his  quarrel  with  his  father.  Although 
he  did  not  care  for  Ann,  she  might  care  for  him. 
Might  care  enough  to  wait  and  .  .  .  Wait? 
Why,  she  cared  so  little  that,  within  a  few 
months,  she  was  ready  to  marry  another  man. 
And,  if  he  owed  her  any  debt  of  honor,  no  matter 
how  farfetched  and  fantastic,  it  was  canceled 
now.  He  was  absolutely  free.  And  he  had  been 
right  all  the  time.  He  could  prove  it.  He  would 
show  Ruth  Graham  that  paper  and  .  .  . 

His  jaw  set  tight,  and  he  rose  from  the  heap  of 
fish  nets  with  the  folded  paper  clinched  like  a  club 
in  his  hand.  He  was  going  to  get  out  of  that 
boathouse  if  he  had  to  butt  a  hole  through  its 
boards  with  his  head. 

Once  more  he  climbed  to  the  window  and  made 
an  attempt  to  squeeze  through.  It  was  futile,  of 
course,  but  this  time  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
sill  and  the  plank  to  which  it  was  attached  gave  a 
little.  He  put  the  paper  between  his  teeth,  seized 
the  sill  with  both  hands,  braced  his  feet  against 
a  beam  below,  and  jerked  with  all  his  strength. 

319 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

Once — twice — three  times!  It  was  giving!  It 
was  pulling  loose !  He  landed  on  his  back  upon 
the  nets,  sill  and  a  foot  of  boarding  in  his  hands. 
In  exactly  five  seconds,  the  folded  newspaper 
jammed  in  his  trousers  pocket,  he  swung  through 
the  opening  and  dropped  to  the  narrow  space  be 
tween  the  building  and  the  end  of  the  wharf. 

The  space  was  a  bare  six  inches  wide.  As  he 
struck,  his  ankle  turned  under  him,  he  staggered, 
tried  wildly  to  regain  his  balance,  and  fell.  As 
he  fell  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  blue-clad  figure 
at  the  top  of  the  bluff  before  the  bungalow.  Then 
he  went  under  with  a  splash,  and  the  eager  tide 
had  him  in  its  grasp. 

When  he  came  to  the  surface  and  shook  the 
water  from  his  eyes,  he  was  already  some  distance 
from  the  wharf.  This,  an  indication  of  the  force 
of  the  tide,  should  have  caused  him  to  realize 
his  danger  instantly.  But  it  did  not.  His  mind 
was  intent  upon  the  accomplishment  of  one  thing, 
namely,  the  proving  to  Ruth  Graham,  by  means 
of  the  item  in  the  paper,  that  he  was  no  longer 
under  any  possible  obligation  to  the  Davidson 
girl.  Therefore,  his  sole  feeling,  as  he  came  sput 
tering  to  the  top  of  the  water,  was  disgust  at  his 
own  clumsiness.  It  was  when  he  tried  to  turn 

320 


THE    EBB    TIDE 

and  swim  back  to  the  wharf  that  he  grasped  the 
situation  as  it  was.  He  could  not  swim  against 
that  tide. 

There  was  no  time  to  consider  what  was  best 
to  do.  The  breakers  were  only  five  hundred 
yards  off,  and  if  he  wished  to  live  he  must  keep 
out  of  their  clutches.  He  began  to  swim  diag 
onally  across  the  current,  putting  all  his  strength 
into  each  stroke.  But  for  every  foot  of  progress 
toward  the  calmer  water  he  was  borne  a  yard 
toward  the  breakers. 

The  tide  bubbled  and  gurgled  about  him. 
Miniature  whirlpools  tugged  at  his  legs,  pulling 
him  under.  He  fought  nobly,  setting  his  teeth 
and  swearing  inwardly  that  he  would  make  it, 
he  would  not  give  up,  he  would  not  drown.  But 
the  edge  of  the  tide  rip  was  a  long  way  off,  and  he 
was  growing  tired  already.  Another  whirlpool 
sucked  him  down,  and  when  he  rose  he  shouted 
for  help.  It  was  an  instinctive,  unreasoning  ap 
peal,  almost  sure  to  be  useless,  for  who  could 
hear  him? — but  he  shouted,  nevertheless. 

And  the  shout  was  answered.  From  some 
where  behind  him — a  long,  long  distance,  so  it 
seemed  to  him — came  the  clear  call  in  a  woman's 
voice. 

321 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

"All  right!  I'm  coming.  Keep  on,  just  as 
you  are." 

He  kept  on,  or  tried  to.  He  swam — and  swam 
— and  swam.  He  went  under,  rose,  went  under 
again,  fought  his  way  up,  and  kept  on  swimming. 
Through  the  gurgle  and  hiss  of  the  water,  sound 
ing  dully  above  the  humming  in  his  ears  and  the 
roar  of  the  blood  in  his  tired  brain,  came  the 
clear  voice  again: 

"  Steady  now !  Just  as  you  are !  one  more 
stroke !  Now  one  more !  Quick !  Quick !  Now ! 
Can  you  get  aboard?  " 

The  wet,  red  side  of  a  dory's  bow  pushed  past 
his  laboring  shoulder.  A  hand  clutched  his  shirt 
collar.  He  reached  up  and  grasped  the  boat's 
gunwale,  hung  on  with  all  his  weight,  threw  one 
leg  over  the  edge,  and  tumbled  into  the  dory's 
bottom. 

"  Thanks,"  he  panted,  his  eyes  shut.  "  That 
— was — about  the  closest  call  I — ever  had.  Hey? 
Why!  Ruth/" 

She  was  panting,  also,  but  she  was  not  look 
ing  at  him.  She  was  rowing  with  all  her  might, 
and  gazing  fearfully  over  her  shoulder.  "  Are 
you  strong  enough  to  help  me  row?"  she  asked 
breathlessly.  "  We  must  head  her  away  from 

322 


THE    EBB    TIDE 

here,  out  of  this  tide.  And  I'm  afraid  that  I 
can't  do  it  alone." 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  over  the  rail. 
The  breakers  were  alarmingly  close.  He  scram 
bled  to  the  thwart,  pushed  her  aside  and  seized 
the  oars.  She  resisted. 

"  Only  one,"  she  gasped.  "  I  can  manage  the 
other." 

So,  each  with  an  oar,  they  fought  the  tide, 
and  won — but  by  the  narrowest  of  margins. 
The  dory  edged  into  stiller  and  shoaler  water, 
crept  out  of  the  eddying  channel  over  the  flat 
where  the  depth  was  but  a  scant  four  feet,  turned 
almost  by  inches,  and,  at  last,  slid  up  on  the 
sandy  beach  below  the  bungalow.  The  girl  sat 
bowed  over  the  handle  of  her  oar,  her  breast 
heaving.  She  said  nothing.  Her  companion  like 
wise  said  nothing.  Staggering,  he  stepped  over 
the  side,  walked  a  few  feet  up  the  beach,  and 
then  tumbled  in  an  unconscious  heap  on  the 
sand. 

He  was  not  unconscious  long,  being  a  healthy 
and  robust  young  fellow.  His  first  thought,  upon 
opening  his  eyes,  was  that  he  must  close  them 
again  as  quickly  as  possible  because  he  wanted 
the  dream  to  continue.  To  lie  with  one's  head 

323 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

in  the  lap  of  an  angel,  while  that  angel  strokes 
your  forehead  and  cries  over  you  and  begs  you 
for  her  sake  not  to  die,  is  too  precious  a  delusion 
to  lose.  But  the  opening  of  one's  eyes  is  a  mis 
take  under  such  circumstances,  and  he  had  made 
it.  The  angel's  next  remark  was  entirely  unro- 
mantic  and  practical. 

"Are  you  better?"  she  asked.  "You're  all 
right  now,  aren't  you?  " 

Her  patient's  reply  was  also  a  question,  and 
irrelevant. 

"  Do  you  care?  "  he  asked  faintly. 

"  Are  you  better?  "  she  asked  in  return. 

"  Did  you  get  my  note?  The  note  I  put  under 
the  door?" 

"Answer  me.     Are  you  all  right  again?" 

'  You  answer  me.     Did  you  get  my  note?  " 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  Don't  try  to  get  up.  You're  not 
strong  enough  yet.  You  must  wait  here  while  I 
go  and  get  you  some 

"  Don't  go  I  "  He  almost  shouted  it.  "  If — 
if  you  do  I'll — I'll — I  think  I'm  going  to  faint 
again." 

"  Oh,  no,  you're  not.  And  I  must  go  and  get 
you  some  brandy  or  something.  Stay  just  where 
you  are." 

324 


THE    EBB    TIDE 

"  Ruth  Graham,  if  you  go  away  now,  I'll  go 
with  you,  if  I  have  to  crawl.  Maybe  I  can't  walk, 
but  I  swear  I'll  crawl  after  you  on  my  hands  and 
knees  unless  you  answer  my  question.  Do  you 
care  enough  for  me  to  wait?  " 

She  looked  out  at  the  little  bay,  at  the  narrow, 
wicked  tide  race,  at  the  breakers  beyond.  Then 
she  looked  down  again  at  him. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  .  .  .  "  Oh,  are  you  going 
to  faint  again  ?  Don't  I  Please  don't  I  " 

Russell  Agnew  Brooks,  the  late  "  John 
Brown,"  opened  his  eyes.  "  I  am  not  going  to 
faint,"  he  observed.  "  I  was  merely  trying  to 
realize  that  I  was  fully  conscious." 

Some  time  after  this — hours  and  minutes  do 
not  count  in  paradise — he  remembered  the  item 
in  the  paper. 

"  By  George !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  had  some 
thing  to  show  you.  I'm  afraid  I've  lost  it.  Oh, 
no!  here  it  is." 

He  extracted  from  his  trousers  pocket  the  wa 
ter  soaked  lump  that  had  been  the  New  York 
newspaper.  The  page  containing  the  sensational 
announcement  of  the  engagement  in  high  life  was 
quite  undecipherable.  Being  on  the  outside  of 
22  325 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

the  folded  paper,  it  had  rubbed  to  a  pulpy  blur. 
However,  he  told  her  about  it,  and  she  agreed 
that  his  judgment  of  the  character  of  the  future 
Baroness  Hardacre  had  been  absolutely  correct. 

'  You  were  very  wise,"  she  said  sagely. 

"  Not  so  wise  as  I've  become  since,"  he 
asserted  with  decision.  Then  he  added,  with  a 
rather  rueful  smile,  "  I'm  afraid,  dear,  people 
won't  say  as  much  for  you,  when  they  know." 

"  I'm  satisfied." 

'  You  may  have  to  wait  all  those  years — and 
years — you  spoke  of." 

"  I  will." 

But  she  did  not  have  to.  For,  at  that  moment, 
the  miracle  of  wisdom  beside  her  sat  up  and 
pointed  to  the  wet  newspaper  lying  on  the  sand 
at  her  feet. 

"  Has  my  happiness  affected  my  wits?  "  he  de 
manded.  "  Or  does  salt  water  bring  on  delu 
sions?  Aren't  those  my  initials?  " 

He  was  pointing  to  a  paragraph  in  the  "  Per 
sonals  "  column  of  the  New  York  paper.  This, 
being  on  one  of  the  inner  pages,  had  remained 
comparatively  dry  and  could  be  read.  The 
particular  "  Personal  "  to  which  he  pointed  was 
this: 

326 


THE    EBB    TIDE 

"R.  A.  B."  Wherever  you  are.  This  is  to  certify 
that  I  hereby  acknowledge  that  you  have  been  abso 
lutely  correct  in  the  A.  D.  matter;  witness  news  else 
where.  I  was  a  fool,  and  I  apologize  publicly.  Inci 
dentally  I  need  a  head  like  yours  in  my  business.  Come 
back.  Partnership  awaiting  you.  Come  back;  and 
marry  anybody  or  nobody  as  you  see  fit. 

"FATHER." 


CHAPTER    XVII 

WOMAN-HATERS 

BUT  what,"   asked   Ruth,    as  they  entered 
the  bungalow  together,  "  has  happened  to 
Mr.  Atkins,  do  you  think?     You  say  he 
went    away    yesterday    noon    and    you    haven't 
seen  him  or  even  heard  from  him  since.     I  should 
think  he  would  be  afraid  to  leave  the  lights  for 
so  long  a  time.     Has  he  ever  done  it  before?" 

"  No.  And  I'm  certain  he  would  not  have 
done  it  this  time  of  his  own  accord.  If  he  could 
have  gotten  back  last  night  he  would,  storm  or 
no  storm." 

"  But  last  night  was  pretty  bad.  And,"  quite 
seriously,  "  of  course  he  knew  that  you  were  here, 
and  so  everything  would  be  all  right." 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  with  sarcasm,  "  he  would 
know  that,  of  course.  So  long  as  I  am  on  deck, 
why  come  back  at  all?  I'm  afraid  Atkins  doesn't 
share  your  faith  in  my  transcendent  ability, 
dear." 

328 


WOMAN-HATERS 

"  Well,"  Miss  Graham  tossed  her  head,  "  I 
imagine  he  knew  he  could  trust  you  to  attend  to 
his  old  lighthouses." 

"  Perhaps.  If  so,  his  faith  has  developed  won 
derfully.  He  never  has  trusted  me  even  to  light 
the  lanterns.  No,  I'm  afraid  something  has  hap 
pened — some  accident.  If  the  telephone  was  in 
working  order  I  could  soon  find  out.  As  it  is,  I 
can  only  wait  and  try  not  to  worry.  By  the  way, 
is  your  housekeeper — Mrs.  What's-her-name — all 
serene  after  her  wet  afternoon?  When  did  she 
return?  " 

"  She  hasn't  returned.  I  expected  her  last 
evening — she  said  she  would  be  back  before 
dark — but  she  didn't  come.  That  didn't  trouble 
me;  the  storm  was  so  severe  that  I  suppose  she 
stayed  in  the  village  overnight." 

"  So  you  were  alone  all  through  the  gale.  I 
wondered  if  you  were;  I  was  tremendously  anx 
ious  about  you.  And  you  weren't  afraid?  Did 
you  sleep?  " 

"  Not  much.  You  see,"  she  smiled  oddly,  "  I 
received  a  letter  before  I  retired,  and  it  was  such 
an  important  —  and  surprising — communication 
that  I  couldn't  go  to  sleep  at  once." 

"A    letter?      A    letter   last    night?      Who — 

329 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

What?  You  don't  mean  my  letter?  The  one  I 
put  under  your  door?  You  didn't  get  that  last 
night!" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  did." 

"  But  how?  The  bungalow  was  as  dark  as  a 
tomb.  There  wasn't  a  light  anywhere.  I  made 
sure  of  that  before  I  came  over." 

"  I  know.  I  put  the  light  out,  but  I  was  sitting 
by  the  window  in  the  dark,  looking  out  at  the 
storm.  Then  I  saw  some  one  coming  up  the  hill, 
and  it  was  you." 

'  Then  you  saw  me  push  it  under  the  door?  " 

'  Yes.  What  made  you  stay  on  the  step  so 
long  after  you  had  pushed  it  under?  " 

"  Me?  .  .  .  Oh,"  hastily,  "  I  wanted  to  make 
sure  it  was — er — under.  And  you  found  it  and 
read  it — then?  " 

"  Of  course.  I  couldn't  imagine  what  it  could 
be,  and  I  was  curious,  naturally." 

"Ruth!" 

"  I  was." 

"Nonsense!  You  knew  what  it  must  be. 
Surely  you  did.  Now,  truly,  didn't  you?  Didn't 
you,  dear?  " 

'  Why  should  I  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  your  sleeve  is  wet. 
You're  soaking  wet  from  head  to  foot." 

330 


WOMAN-HATERS 

"  Well,  I  presume  that  was  to  be  expected. 
This  water  out  here  is  remarkably  damp,  you 
know,  and  I  was  in  it  for  some  time.  I  should 
have  been  in  it  yet  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you." 

"  Don't!  "  with  a  shudder,  "  don't  speak  of  it. 
When  I  saw  you  fall  into  that  tide  I  ...  But 
there !  you  mustn't  stay  here  another  moment. 
Go  home  and  put  on  dry  things.  Go  at  once!  " 

"Dry  things  be  hanged!  I'm  going  to  stay 
right  here — and  look  at  you." 

"  You're  not.  Besides,  I  am  wet,  too.  And  I 
haven't  had  my  breakfast." 

"  Haven't  you?  Neither  have  I."  He  forgot 
that  he  had  attempted  to  have  one.  "  But  I  don't 
care,"  he  added  recklessly.  Then,  with  a  flash 
of  inspiration,  "  Why  can't  we  breakfast  to 
gether?  Invite  me,  please." 

"  No,  I  shall  not.  At  least,  not  until  you  go 
back  and  change  your  clothes." 

"  To  hear  is  to  obey.  '  I  go,  but  I  return,'  as 
the  fellow  in  the  play  observes.  I'll  be  back  in 
just  fifteen  minutes." 

He  was  back  in  twelve,  and,  as  to  make  the 
long  detour  about  the  marshes  would,  he  felt 
then,  be  a  wicked  waste  of  time  and  the  marshes 
themselves  were  covered  with  puddles  left  by  the 

33 1 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

tide,  his  "  dry  things  "  were  far  from  dry  when 
he  arrived.  But  she  did  not  notice,  and  he  was 
too  happy  to  care,  so  it  was  all  right.  They  got 
breakfast  together,  and  if  the  coffee  had  boiled 
too  long  and  the  eggs  not  long  enough,  that  was 
all  right,  also. 

They  sat  at  opposite  sides  of  the  little  table, 
and  he  needed  frequent  reminding  that  eating  was 
supposed  to  be  the  business  on  hand.  They  talked 
of  his  father  and  of  Ann  Davidson — whom  Ruth 
declared  was  to  be  pitied — of  the  wonderful  co 
incidence  that  that  particular  paper,  the  one  con 
taining  the  "  Personal  "  and  the  "  Engagement 
in  High  Life  "  item,  should  have  been  on  top  of 
the  pile  in  the  boathouse,  and — of  other  things. 
Occasionally  the  talk  lapsed,  and  the  substitute  as 
sistant  merely  looked,  looked  and  smiled  vacu 
ously.  When  this  happened  Miss  Graham  smiled, 
also,  and  blushed.  Neither  of  them  thought  of 
looking  out  of  the  window. 

If  they  had  not  been  so  preoccupied,  if  they 
had  looked  out  of  that  window,  they  would  have 
seen  a  horse  and  buggy  approaching  over  the 
dunes.  Seth  and  Mrs.  Bascom  were  on  the  buggy 
seat,  and  the  lightkeeper  was  driving  with  one 
hand.  The  equipage  had  been  hired  at  the  East- 

332 


WOMAN-HATERS 

boro  livery  stable.  Joshua  was  undergoing  re 
pairs  and  enjoying  a  much-needed  rest  at  the 
blacksmith  shop  in  the  village. 

As  they  drew  near  the  lights,  Seth  sighed  con 
tentedly. 

"  Well,  Emeline,"  he  observed,  "  here  we  be, 
safe  and  sound.  Home  again!  Yes,  sir,  by  jim- 
iny  crimps,  home!  And  you  ain't  goin'  to  Boston 
to-day,  neither." 

Mrs.  Bascom,  the  practical,  moved  toward  the 
edge  of  the  seat. 

"  Take  your  arm  away,  Seth,"  she  cautioned. 
"  They'll  see  you." 

"Who'll  see  me?  What  do  I  care  who  sees 
me?  Ain't  a  man  got  a  right  to  put  his  arm 
around  his  own  wife,  I'd  like  to  know?  " 

"  Humph!  Well,  all  right.  I  can  stand  it  if 
you  can.  Only  I  cal'late  your  young  Brown  man 
is  in  for  somethin'  of  a  shock,  that's  all.  He 
don't  know  that  I'm  your  wife." 

Seth  removed  his  arm.  His  expression 
changed. 

"  That's  so,"  he  admitted.  "  He  will  be  set 
back  three  or  four  rows,  won't  he?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder.  He'll  think  your 
woman-hate  has  had  a  relapse,  I  guess." 

333 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

The  lightkeeper  looked  trouble;  then  he 
nodded  grimly. 

"  His  ain't  what  you'd  call  a  desp'rate  case," 
he  declared.  '  Judgin'  by  what  I've  seen  in  the 
cove  for  the  last  month,  he's  gettin'  better  of  it 
fast.  I  ain't  no  worse  than  he  is,  by  time!  .  .  . 
Wonder  where  he  is !  This  place  looks  deader'n 
the  doleful  tombs." 

He  hitched  the  horse  to  the  back  fence  and 
assisted  his  wife  to  alight  from  the  buggy.  They 
entered  the  kitchen.  No  one  was  there,  and  Seth's 
hurried  search  of  the  other  rooms  resulted  in  find 
ing  them  untenanted  likewise. 

"  Maybe  he's  out  in  one  of  the  lights,"  he  said. 
"  Wait  here,  Emeline,  and  I'll  go  see." 

But  she  would  not  wait.  "  I'm  goin'  right  over 
to  the  bungalow,"  she  said.  "  I'm  worried  about 
Miss  Ruth.  She  was  alone  all  last  night,  and  I 
sha'n't  rest  easy  till  I  know  nothin's  happened 
to  her.  You  can  come  when  you  find  your 
young  man.  You  and  me  have  got  some- 
thin'  to  tell  'em,  and  we  might  as  well  get 
the  tellin'  done  as  soon  as  possible.  Nothin's 
ever  gained  by  putting  off  a  mean  job. 
Unless,  of  course,"  she  added,  looking  at  him 
out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes,  "  you  want 

334 


WOMAN-HATERS 

to  back  out,  Seth.  It  ain't  too  late  even  now, 
you  know." 

He  stared  at  her.  "  Back  out!  "  he  repeated; 
"  back  out!  Emeline  Bascom,  what  are  you  talk- 
in'  about?  You  go  to  that  bungalow  and  go  in  a 
hurry.  Don't  stop  to  talk!  go!  Who's  runnin' 
this  craft?  Who's  the  man  in  this  family — you 
or  me?  " 

She  laughed.  "  You  seem  to  be,  Seth,"  she 
answered,  "  just  now." 

"  I  am.  I've  been  a  consider'ble  spell  learnin' 
how  to  be,  but  I've  learned.  You  trot  right 
along." 

Brown  was  in  neither  of  the  light  towers,  and 
Seth  began  to  be  worried  about  him.  He  de 
scended  to  the  yard  and  stood  there,  wondering 
what  on  earth  could  have  happened.  Then, 
looking  across  the  cove,  he  became  aware  that 
his  wife  was  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  bluff, 
making  signals  with  both  hands. 

He  opened  his  mouth  to  shout  a  question,  but 
she  frantically  signaled  for  silence.  Then  she 
beckoned.  He  ran  down  the  path  at  full  speed. 
She  met  him  at  the  other  side  of  the  cove. 

"Come  here!"  she  whispered.  "Don't  say 
a  word,  but  just  come — and  look." 

335 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

He  followed  her,  crept  close  to  the  bungalow 
window  and  peeped  in.  His  helper,  "  John 
Brown,"  and  Miss  Ruth  Graham  were  seated  at 
the  table.  Also  the  substitute  assistant  was  lean 
ing  across  that  table  with  the  young  lady's  hand 
in  his;  the  pair  were  entirely  oblivious  of  any 
thing  in  the  world  except  each  other. 

A  few  moments  later  a  thunderous  knock 
shook  the  bungalow  door.  The  knock  was  not 
answered  immediately;  therefore,  Seth  opened  the 
door  himself.  Miss  Graham  and  the  lightkeep- 
er's  helper  were  standing  some  distance  apart; 
they  gazed  speechlessly  at  the  couple  who  now 
entered  the  room. 

"  Well,"  observed  Seth,  with  sarcasm,  "  any 
body  got  anything  to  say?  You,"  turning  to  the 
young  man,  "  seems  to  me  you  ought  to  say 
somethln'.  Considerin'  a  little  agreement  you 
and  me  had,  I  should  imagine  I  was  entitled  to 
some  triflin'  explanation.  What  are  you  doin' 
over  here — with  her?  Brown " 

The  young  gentleman  came  to  himself  with 
a  start.  He  walked  across  to  where  Miss 
Graham  was  standing,  and  once  more  took  her 
hand. 

"  My  name  is  not  Brown,"  he  said  firmly.     "  It 

336 


:IIc  crept  close  to  the  bungalow  window  and  peeped  in." 


WOMAN-HATERS 

is  Brooks;  and  this  is  the  young  lady  I  am  to 
marry." 

He  naturally  expected  his  superior  to  be  sur 
prised.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  the  surprised 
party.  Seth  reached  out,  drew  the  bungalow 
housekeeper  toward  him,  and  put  his  arm  about 
her  waist.  Then  he  smiled;  and  the  smile  was 
expressive  of  pride,  triumph,  and  satisfaction  ab 
solute. 

"  Atkins!  "  gasped  Brooks. 

"  My  name  ain't  Atkins,"  was  the  astonishing 
reply;  "  it's  Bascom.  And  this,"  indicating  by  a 
tightening  of  his  arm  the  blushing  person  at  his 
side,  "  is  the  lady  /  married  over  five  year  ago." 

After  the  stories  had  been  told,  after  both 
sides  had  told  theirs  and  explained  and  been  ex 
claimed  over  and  congratulated,  after  the  very 
last  question  had  been  asked  and  answered, 
Brown — or  Brooks — asked  one  more. 

"  But  this  other  fellow,"  he  queried,  "  this 
brother-in-law —  By  George,  it  is  perfectly  mar 
velous,  this  whole  business! — where  is  he?  What 
has  become  of  him?  " 

Seth  chuckled.  "  Bennie  D.?"  he  said. 
"  Well,  Bennie  D.  is  leavin'  Eastboro  on  the 

337 


THE    WOMAN-HATERS 

noon  train.  I  paid  his  fare  and  give  him  fifty 
dollars  to  boot.  He's  goin'  somewhere,  but  he 
ain't  sartin  where.  If  you  asked  me,  I  should 
say  that,  in  the  end,  he'd  most  likely  have  to  go 
where  he's  never  been  afore,  so  far's  I  ever  heard 
— that's  to  work.  Now — seein'  as  the  important 
business  has  been  talked  over  and  settled — maybe 
you'll  tell  me  about  the  lights,  and  how  you  got 
along  last  night." 

But  the  lighthouse  subject  was  destined  to  be 
postponed  for  a  few  minutes.  The  person  in 
whose  care  the  Lights  had  been  left  during  the  past 
twenty  hours  or  so  looked  at  the  speaker,  then 
at  the  other  persons  present,  and  suddenly  began 
to  laugh. 

'What  are  you  laughing  at?"  asked  Miss 
Graham.  'Why,  Russell,  what  is  it?" 

Russell  Agnew  Brooks,  alias  "  John  Brown," 
ex-substitute  assistant  at  Eastboro  Twin-Lights, 
sank  into  a  chair,  shaking  from  head  to  heel. 

"  It  is  hysterics,"  cried  Ruth,  hastening  to  his 
side.  "  No  wonder,  poor  dear,  considering  what 
he  has  been  through.  Hush,  Russell  I  don't,  you 
frighten  me.  What  is  it?" 

Her  fiance  waved  a  reassuring  hand.  "  It — 
it's  all  right,"  he  gasped.  "  I  was  just  laughing 

338 


WOMAN-HATERS 

at  ...  Oh,"  pointing  an  unsteady  finger  at  the 
lightkeeper,  "  ask  him;  he  knows." 

"Ask  him?"  repeated  the  bewildered  young 
lady.  "  Why,  Mr.  Atkins — Bascom,  I  mean — 
what.  .  .  ." 

And  then  Seth  began  to  laugh.  Leaning 
against  the  doorpost,  he  at  first  chuckled  and 
then  roared. 

"  Seth !  "  cried  his  wife.  "  Seth,  you  old  idiot ! 
Why,  I  never  see  two  such  loons  in  my  life! 
Seth,  answer  me !  What  are  you  two  laughin' 
at?" 

Seth  Atkins  Bascom  wiped  the  tears  from  his 
eyes.  "  I  cal'late,"  he  panted,  "  I  rather  guess — 
Ho,  ho ! — I  rather  guess  we're  both  laughin'  at 
woman-haters." 


(i) 


THE    END 


